


Demoted

by JayEz



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Detective Erik, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Charles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutant Politics, Physical Abuse, Professor Charles - Freeform, Protective Erik, abusive relationship between Charles/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is a detective-specialist with the NYPD Mutant Tactical Unit, ready to help out where his skills are needed. Or he would be, if he and his partner hadn’t been demoted. For the next four months, he is patrolling the Lenox Hill precinct with Azazel – if he doesn’t die of boredom first.<br/>One night they are called in to investigate a potential case of domestic violence, yet the tenant assures them he is both alone and unharmed. However, there is something about this Charles Xavier that compels Erik to follow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Fifty-Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merlenhiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an Easter present for my dear sister [merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) who has been mourning the lack of the abusive relationship trope in the Cherik tag. I hope this will fill the void! (After starting this I realized that the reason behind this lack might be that it’s rather hard to write telepath!Charles in an abusive relationship…)
> 
> Thanks so much to Sierra for beta-reading this! You can find her on tumblr [here](http://imsuperwholockd.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> **Please check the tags for warnings.** Also, domestic violence is a complex topic that takes many forms. My knowledge comes from various websites (like [this one](http://www.aaets.org/article144.htm)), so please don’t take my version as the ultimate truth.
> 
>  **Regarding police procedure:** I researched as well as I could but went with my instincts most of the time. It’s fiction :)
> 
>  **Regarding the choice of American English** (which I need to mention because I’m a dork): Given that Charles is born in the US and only spent a few years in the UK, I eventually decided to write this in AmE, with Charles displaying some British speech patterns and, of course, having his amazing British accent.  
>  Also, Erik sometimes uses a few choice words in German. Translations will be in the end notes.

“Put your hands on the wheel, Lehnsherr, or do you want them to add another month to this hell?” 

Erik turns his head to look at his partner who is currently glaring at his hands, which are nowhere near where they should be. If he is stuck in a patrol car for four months, he figures, he might just as well teach himself how to drive with his powers. 

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow and turns the wheel to make the patrol car round a corner, stifling a sigh. 

“I mean it, Erik. I’ve got no interest in getting acquainted with a lamp pole.”

“You say that as if I cannot drive,” Erik argues, executing the following turn with utmost precision just to prove his point. 

“You’re a menace and you know it.”

“Just say the word and we can switch places.”

Azazel doesn’t answer. They both know the red-skinned man will never be allowed to drive, given his mutation. Back on the MTU, the Mutant Tactical Unit, Erik and Azazel never drove anywhere since Azazel would just teleport them where they needed to go. In case Erik is alone and has to pursue, he’s made sure to be able to fly using the earth’s magnetic field. 

Really, the worst thing about this punishment is being stuck in the car all day. At least it’s always the same car, so the metal has become familiar over the past four weeks, almost like a soothing presence at the back of Erik’s mind. 

Suddenly the radio crackles, the female operator’s crisp “Dispatch to 13 Echo” filling the silent car. 

Azazel takes the call. “13 Echo, over.”

“Got a possible 10-52 A at 41st East 63rd Street, apartment 8C. Neighbor called it in, reported shouting and loud noises.”

“On our way.” 

Azazel puts the radio back as Erik speeds up the car, speeding down Park Avenue and turning right into 63rd street. 

10-52 A means domestic violence alarm, so they might be walking into everything from a harmless argument to full-out fighting. So far these incidents have all been minor, yet Erik never allows himself to become complacent, no matter how boring separating a squabbling couple may be compared to what he usually does on the job. 

They reach the address, a tall, red brick building with a doorman. The latter comes as no surprise – Lenox Hill is the richest borough of Manhattan, though being rich doesn’t exclude anyone from committing crimes. 

Said doorman takes one look at their uniforms (because being demoted also means having to play dress up, _verdammt, wirklich_ ) and lets them pass. Azazel teleports them to the eighth floor where they find apartment C awaiting them quietly behind a chocolate brown door, matching the beige hallway. A plaque next to the bell reads _C. F. Xavier_. 

Erik knocks, reaching out with his powers to see if he can gather any helpful information about the living space beyond the wood. He feels the usual assortment of electrical appliances, plus one wrist watch which is currently approaching the door. 

It opens a moment later, revealing a young man with striking blue eyes, slightly disheveled hair and a sleepy air about him, aided by his attire of pajama bottoms and a loose t-shirt. He seems to be in his early thirties and nothing about his person would suggest the 10-52 was founded. Behind him, Erik can make out the dimensions of an entrance hall opening up into living space and ending with impressive floor-to-ceiling windows that oversee Central Park. 

“Can I help you, officers?” the man asks, narrowing his eyes while his brow furrows in obvious confusion. 

That, or he is a good actor. He also hasn’t startled upon seeing Azazel’s red form, which earns him a few points in Erik’s book. The British accent, meanwhile, only serves to intrigue him. 

“Mr. Xavier, we received a call from this building, reporting raised voices, noises…”

The man’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I must apologize – I was on the phone with my sister. She’s …” he hesitates, eyes darting to the ground. “She’s not known for sensible decisions. I’m afraid I got a little angry, though it didn’t do me any good.” 

He shakes his head, eyes growing distant for a second as if he’s remembering the argument. Erik uses the pause to glance at Azazel, whose lips are forming a thin line, clearly conveying his skepticism. If Erik felt a second watch or belt or anything that might hint at a second person residing inside the flat at the moment, he would have supported his partner’s suspicions. 

“Are you sure? Would you let us take a look?” Azazel asks, leaning forward in preparation for entering the flat. 

But the man’s lips are twisting into a humorless smile as he shakes his head once more. “There is no need, I promise. I’m sorry you have come all this way in vain, officers. Unless you are able to talk some sense into a twenty-something shapeshifter, your services are not required.”

A shapeshifting sister, Erik infers, and takes a closer look at the man, trying to determine if he, too, is a mutant. If he is, however, his mutation is invisible. 

Azazel is tense next to him but eventually seems to decide Mr. Xavier is telling the truth, giving the tenant a curt nod. “Alright. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight,” is the reply and the door falls shut in front of them. 

* * *

Charles listens intently for the departing noises of the two men, his mind following theirs as they walk down the hallway and then disappear. Charles does not startle at the sensation – he has touched young Kurt’s mind during teleportation before, back at the Mutant Community center. 

He releases a breath and rests his forehead against the door. Granted, they were quite loud today, though calling the police seems like a considerable overreaction. 

He crosses the flat, slipping silently into the bedroom, more from habit than necessity. Nate’s form is motionless, half covered by dark sheets, in a deep, alcohol-aided sleep. 

Charles climbs into the bed carefully and makes to lie down on his back, too late recalling what happened earlier. He winces as he puts pressure on the bruise that is undoubtedly forming near his seventh vertebrae. He turns around on his stomach instead, his head turned towards Nate, tracing the strong lines of the other man’s back. 

Minutes trickle by, though sleep eludes Charles. 

Usually by this time he is comfortably sore and exhausted after sex with Nate (sex with Nate has always had this effect on him, the bone-deep exhaustion better than any sleeping pill ever invented), so tonight the absence of it is strange, keeping Charles’ eyes open and his mind awake. 

His thought return to what the officers said. Leave it to Charles’ neighbors to misinterpret the situation, though what can one expect from a couple of photographers whose idea of a relationship are sickeningly sweet cuddling sessions on the sofa to a rerun of America’s Next Top Model? 

Shaking his head against the pillow, Charles pulls the blanket tighter around him, and starts counting sheep. 

* * *

_**Four years ago** _

How much Charles loves Tony Stark is directly proportional to how much he hates the man’s parties. 

This one is no different – a bland mixture of politicians, influential businessmen, several models whom Charles always confuses with the escorts in the crowd, and several more people who consider themselves incredibly important in New York. 

He can only endure so much small talk, and he would have declined the invitation to today’s launch party of the newest Stark Industry body armor for NYPD’s forces if it weren’t for the opportunity Tony’s events represent. Most of the people in attendance are almost as rich as Charles and, if buttered up enough, might write him a check for the Mutant Community Center he is currently trying to establish. Well, and Tony has been one of his closest friends since childhood, so catching up with him is also a plus. 

“Ah, there he is! Charles, come here for a moment!” Tony’s voice pulls him out of his own thoughts and back to the party, where the millionaire seems to be dragging a man in an incredibly flattering suit towards him. 

“Charles, this is the guy I was telling you about, Nate Dawson, you know – Stealth? Did I tell you about that? Or not? I keep forgetting which secrets I’ve blabbed to whom,” Tony babbles, gesturing wildly with the hand that has just released the other man’s wrist while his other hand is securely wrapped around a champagne flute. 

“No, I don’t think you’ve mentioned him,” Charles replies, accepting a strong handshake and the smile the man is gracing him with. 

Charles likes to be aware of the people around him, which is why he reaches out, aiming to just skim the surface of Mr. Dawson’s mind, though it is as if there is no one in front of him at all. 

“Ha!” Tony exclaims. “I knew it! Pepper owes me a weekend in Maui, gotta call her right now…”

With that, he is gone, leaving Charles to stare up at the mysterious guest in confusion. He is towering several inches above Charles, with broad shoulders and an expertly coiffed mop of black hair as well as an artful stubble dusting his jaw. 

“I must apologize for Tony, his mind’s all over the place today,” Dawson says, revealing a slightly southern accent. 

“If you grow up with him that’s nothing new,” Charles replies, waving the issue away with a gesture. “I’m sorry, but – this is probably incredibly rude, so I must apologize… But are you a mutant?”

His lack of manners earns him a brilliant smile, all white teeth and dimples. “I am. What gave it away?”

“I don’t know if Tony said, but I am a telepath –” Dawson nods, so Charles continues. “And well, even if I don’t listen in to someone’s thought, I tend to be aware of the people around me and I just cannot read you. It’s as if you’re not even there.”

Dawson’s smile only widens. “I guess I earned my nickname. Most tracking technologies fail to pick up on my presence. I don’t have a heat signature either, for that matter. Tony has been wondering if my abilities extend to telepaths, and apparently he was right.”

The tediousness Charles usually associates with Tony’s parties dissipates immediately as he is sucked into a conversation with Dawson – _call me Nate, please_ – during which he discovers quite a few details about the handsome man. 

For one, that he comes from old money, which he used to found his own company, which produces stealth equipment based on his own mutation. Stealth Solutions Inc. is about to enter a partnership with Stark Industries, equipping jets and more with untraceable exteriors and other fancy tweaks. 

For another, Nate is a highly educated MIT graduate who not only listens to Charles’ inevitable lecture on the mutation that caused the incredibly golden color of his eyes, but also understands it and is able to pitch in. 

They end up having sex in a guest room JARVIS was kind enough to direct them to, and Charles is ecstatic enough that he doesn’t care if Tony will know he ended up sleeping with his newest business partner. 

Charles gives Nate his number afterwards and Nate calls not an hour later as Charles is preparing for bed in his own flat to ask him out. 

Charles has never felt like this before – he has been in relationships, but he always had to be careful with his powers lest he be accused of reading his partners’ minds or worse, influencing their decisions. With Nate, this is not a problem. 

He also seems incapable of boring Nate with anything, or talk about something that goes over his head. 

Nate is his true equal, intellectually and physically. In addition, he is rich which nibs any comments as to him being a “gold digger” from Raven right in the bud.

And if sometimes Nate is a little rougher than Charles is used to in bed, he learns to like it, traces the finger-shaped bruises peppering the skin near his hips, knows after a few months to expect strong hands to hold him down. 

Nate is a tactile person, always touching Charles not matter where they are. Possessive touches, shouting at the world that he is Nate’s, that he is loved and cherished. There used to be times during university and the first few years after that when Charles doubted it would ever happen, so sometimes his chest threatens to burst with joy and love. 

They move in together six months after their first meeting, into Nate’s sleek flat with floor-to-ceiling windows overseeing Central Park. They fight sometimes like any couple, and when they do, Nate sometimes loses his temper but he always apologizes after, making it up to Charles with romantic dinners and donations to the Community Center which blossoms into an example for Mutant education and integration.

It is their dynamic. It doesn’t mean they are any less in love with each other than the organic vegans next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _verdammt, wirklich_ = damn, really 
> 
> Comments/Kudos give me life! I will post one chapter per day regardless, but just saying :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/)


	2. Bills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the very warm welcome to this fandom! Your comments and kudos are making my day, really :)

Erik has been inside his flat for approximately fifteen minutes until he opens a tab on his laptop and types in “C. F. Xavier”. 

It takes his search engine less than one second to direct him to the faculty page of Columbia University, where Erik identifies the man by his picture. Just as Erik suspected, he is a mutant – telepath, specifically, though the page does not clarify which level. Charles Xavier is currently teaching genetics and mutant-specific educational science and child psychology, and apparently is some kind of prodigy. Graduated from Harvard at 16, earned five Ph.Ds. at Oxford (which explains the British accent) and Columbia, now gaining acclaim for his work on early education. 

He also runs the Xavier Foundation, the main driving force behind the Mutant Community Center Erik has read about before but never actually visited (given that it caters mostly to children, teens and the elder). Its concept has been exported to other major cities, and according to recent statistics that Erik has read, the decrease in anti-Mutant hate crime in New York has been partially attributed to the Community Center’s efforts. Another contribution are Police Commissioner Shaw’s measures to improve the mutant-related crime solution rate by driving the recruitment of Mutant officers. Erik himself is part of Shaw’s plan to make the executive branch safer for those of their kind. 

Well. As informative as this is, it does not help him determine whether or not Charles Xavier is at risk of domestic violence. 

A quick modification of his search term turns up several articles in less-renowned publications. Apparently Xavier is rich enough to warrant celebrity status. Fortunately this means that his relationship status in return is topic of some discussion, which is how Erik learns about Xavier’s partner of four years, a man named Nate Dawson, CEO of Stealth Solutions. 

_Oh._ As it seems, Xavier’s boyfriend is producing Erik’s protective wear. When he is with the MTU, that is. 

The thing that is missing, however, is any rumor about trouble in their relationship, so Erik should probably leave well enough alone. 

Something about Azazel and his encounter with the man, however, still grates him. Maybe it is the quick way Azazel allowed himself to be swayed into leaving. In light of Xavier’s mutation, it is possible that he helped make that happen… which would only make sense if the man had something to hide. 

Erik’s fingers are hovering over the keyboard, hesitant about their next action.

* * *

When Erik visits the Community Center the following Friday, he blames it entirely on his lack of recreational activities. Usually a considerable portion of his free time is devoted to preparing missions for the MTU, yet ever since his temporary demotion he has had way too much time on his hands…

* * *

The Community Center is a wide, three-story building in modern design, located in the crook of Harlem Meer in Central Park, near the Lasker Rink. 

It was built four years ago after intensive lobbying – when Erik heard about the opening he was surprised it had been green lighted in the first place. New York’s mayor may pride himself with residing over the most progressive and mutant-friendly city in the US, but even he cannot give away a patch of Central Park on his own. 

Erik watches from a distance as approximately fifty people run around on the grass surrounding the building, some of them rising from the ground from time to time with the help wings in various shapes. One boy of about eight or nine is shooting metal cans that have been placed a few yards away with some sort of red laser that erupts from behind his sunglasses while a taller boy with similar features is cheering him on.

It is a sunny Friday afternoon, decently warm for June, though Erik is still wearing his leather jacket above a thin black turtleneck. He begins to regret his choice as he wanders past the biggest group of children, some with very visible mutations, until he reaches the two large front doors that are standing invitingly open. 

“Can I help you?” 

Erik turns, discovering a lanky man with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He seems to be torn between smiling and frowning, obviously not sure what to make of Erik’s presence. 

Too late he realizes that his badge is visible where it has been fastened to the belt of his trousers. 

“Not really. It’s my first time here – I just wanted to look around.”

The man perceptively relaxes and only now does Erik see that he is barefoot, though his feet look more like an ape’s than a human’s. Well, Erik muses, some mutations are less useful than others.

“Ah, you’re very welcome to. I’m Hank McCoy. Right now is play time, as you can see,” he explains, casting a fond glance at the hoard of infants. “But the first lecture starts in half an hour, and right after there are several workshops. The entire schedule is over there and –”

“Is Professor Xavier speaking today?” Erik interrupts, causing McCoy to stumble over his words.

“Oh, uh, yes, at the first lecture, actually. It’s on educational reform and integration versus separation. He’s given the same speech a few times now but it’s always full, so if you want a seat then you should make your way to room 1-12, down this hall and then right.”

Erik remembers enough manners to thank him and slips away just as a young girl with a bright yellow tail steps up to McCoy. 

Room 1-12 is already half-filled with teachers, parents and some university students as far as Erik is able to deduce. He buys a cup of coffee from an Asian girl with green lines decorating her face and neck outside the open door, then explores the vicinity. 

He has already mapped the building with his powers, knows every exit and how to unlock the windows. It’s a reflex, drilled into him first by the foster care system, then by Shaw and eventually by the military, and the reason he detects a familiar watch around a corner. 

It is in fact Charles Xavier, pacing four steps to the left before pacing back again, his phone at his ear. 

Erik has never much cared for propriety or politeness, and he is here on a mission, after all, so he retreats back behind the wall and strains his ears, careful to shield his mind. Xavier is more powerful than any telepath Erik has encountered so far, yet if he is distracted enough, Erik’s shield should hide his presence well enough. 

“No, I grabbed a bite to eat on the way over here from my last classes,” Xavier is saying patiently. “Yes, the usual place. Though I doubt you called me to ask about my lunch, love.” 

Erik feels his pulse spike at the moniker. Maybe it’s Xavier’s partner on the other end.

“Oh? Well, that was weeks ago… How much did you say again? … I think it was chewing gum, darling – that was the day one of my students had a panic attack about a test, I didn’t have time to freshen up before coming to the Center and I’d eaten a garlic bagel – no, I’m not lying, Nate, why would I be lying?”

Xavier’s voice rises just incrementally, but considering his boyfriend is apparently asking him to account for a minor expense made weeks ago, Erik thinks he could be harsher. Or hang up and declare Dawson paranoid. 

“Look,” Charles continues in a soothing tone, “I think the rest of the gum is still in my other bag; you can check when you get back, alright? … Thank you. … I know, love, I’m sorry, I should have told you that day, saved you the worry.”

Erik can feel his eyebrows rise at the utter conviction with which the line is delivered. 

“Yes, I’ll see you later. I have to go; my lecture starts in – yes, that one. I don’t know, the audience is always different. … That’s a great idea, I’ll ask my agent. Thank you, darling. … Love you, too.”

By the time Xavier hangs up, Erik is already down the corridor, slipping into the room of the lecture. His mind is still focused on Xavier’s watch, however, so he is aware that the man has remained where he stopped the phone call, presumably leaning against the wall. 

The entire scene has done nothing to appease Erik’s suspicions. 

* * *

Xavier’s speech is good. He communicates in layman terms and even though it is clear that he favors separate mutant-schools, he makes a point of exemplifying the positive arguments of integrationist approaches.

He looks older in his khakis, shirt and cardigan with elbow patches than he did in the ensemble from the other night. 

“It confuses many that I identify as an integrationist when it comes to politics,” Xavier adds after presenting his concept of what mutant-specific education should look like as well as which modifications have to be made to the existing human system. “But it is my firm belief that mutants and humans can coexist peacefully. For that to work, however, mutants need to learn control, to be able to explore their powers in a safe environment, just like humans need to be taught that mutants do not pose a threat, which is why my proposal includes several joint activities between cooperating human and mutant schools. If you agree we would be delighted to gain your signature for our petition; if you have any questions, now is the time to ask and I’ll do my best to explain in a timely fashion.”

The Q&A takes about another thirty minutes, with one teacher worrying about where mutant-schools would get their staff, one parent voicing safety concerns for children with less powerful mutations, and several more questions about financial aspects like tuition. 

When the event is finally over, Erik lingers, hoping to catch Xavier himself even if he is unsure as to what exactly he might say to him. 

As though reading his mind, Xavier approaches him out of his own volition, a light smile tugging at his lips. 

“I thought your mind felt familiar, officer,” he says as way of greeting, offering Erik his hand. “Charles Xavier. Although I believe you know that already.”

“Indeed,” Erik replies, glad to say that Xavier’s handshake is firm despite his lean frame and rather grandfather-ish clothes. “Erik Lehnsherr. Though it’s detective, actually.”

Xavier narrows his eyes at that, surprised. “What is a detective doing responding to unfounded nine-one-one calls?”

Erik grins bitterly, showing his teeth. “My partner and I were demoted four weeks ago. For the next three and a half months I’ll be ensuring Lenox Hill’s safety.”

“Well, I’ll surely be sleeping better tonight,” the professor shoots back immediately, his eyes sparkling. “Are you by any chance a member of the MTU?”

Xavier really is as smart as his many titles indicate, Erik notes. “Usually, I am.” 

“And may I enquire as to why you are checking up on me?”

“Well,” Erik begins, recalling the lie he prepared before heading to the Center, “I thought the name on the door sounded familiar. Google jogged my memory.”

“Ah, and you developed a sudden interest in early education?”

Erik finds himself smiling, replying instantly, “How do you know I haven’t been to one of your lectures before?”

Xavier smirks and raises his hand, tapping his temple. “Telepath. While I do not read thoughts without permission, I can sense people’s general presence. Your mind, my friend, is something I would have remembered.”

For a moment, all Erik can do is blink. “Was that a compliment?”

“I guess so,” Xavier says slowly. “Now, I must apologize, but I do have a plans for tonight.”

“Pity,” Erik comments, “I would have loved to talk about your naïve world views.”

Xavier actually splutters at that, as if no one had ever told him that about his political opinions. “I beg your pardon? Naïve?”

“Yes,” Erik says, clasping his hands together behind his back. “The assumption that humans and mutants will be able to coexist peacefully is nothing more than a pipe dream. I would have expected someone of your mental capacities to be less prone to those.”

Xavier is blinking rapidly, an expression of wide-eyed shock on his face. “Well, what do you propose, then? Don’t tell me you’re a Separatist.”

Erik chuckles. “I merely think that our rivalry with _Homo sapiens_ will not end peacefully. Sooner or later humans will panic and then we will show them who is the superior species.”

“We are not a different species, Mr. Lehnsherr! We can still procreate. And you cannot genuinely be this pessimistic!”

“Too bad you have plans; I’d have liked to discuss this more extensively. Over a game of chess, perhaps?” Erik suggests, both in order to see how Xavier will react given that his plans involve his partner, and because he would honestly like to do it. The offer of chess was completely spontaneous, though he figures someone as intelligent as Xavier might enjoy the game. 

The professor seems moments away from agreeing, though then hesitates with his lips already parted. They are very nice lips, redder than usual for a man and attractively full. 

“I’d love to, my friend, but I’m afraid my prior engagements take precedence. Maybe next week, if you’re available?”

“Gladly. I am free Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evening; I work the other nights.”

“Tuesday, perhaps? It’s our political night here at the Center. The topic next week is mutant-human relationships. I’m sure no one will take offense if I dissuade you of your ridiculous notions anyway.”

“You seem rather sure of yourself, Professor Xavier.”

“Having the moral high ground will do that to you,” Xavier shoots back, though it does not come across as arrogant as Erik thought such a statement might. “And please, it’s Charles,” Xavier – no, Charles – offers with a smile, which Erik can but return. 

“Erik, then.”

“Until next week, my friend.” They shake hands once more before Charles heads towards the door. 

Erik’s smile drops as soon as the man is out of his sight, already picking apart every nuance of Charles’ reaction at the suggestion of blowing off his boyfriend. He might not exactly be afraid of incurring Dawson’s anger, but in a healthy relationship it should not be a problem to simply call to say one is going to be late, should it? 

Erik swallows the impulse of tailing Charles back to his apartment. He has a feeling the situation will require a lot more tact than he is used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will follow tomorrow and will be a lot longer than the previous installments, so I hope I’ll be able to welcome y’all back?


	3. Minutes of a Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might just be my favourite chapter of the entire story, so I hope you like it just as much :) Also, as of yesterday, all seven chapters have been completed, so I'll definitely be able to keep my promise of daily updates *phew*
> 
>  **Warning** for not-too graphic description of sounding-related activities with some dub-con elements, as well as domestic abuse, emotional and physical.

_**Three months** _

When he hears the news, Charles’ first act is to drop by Nate’s firm with a cup of his favorite coffee and one of the cupcakes Nate secretly loves but would never admit to. 

The man in question is doing paperwork in his office, rising from his chair as soon as he sees Charles and his broad smile. 

“It passed! They approved it!” Charles positively shouts, pulling his boyfriend into a passionate kiss, then immediately talking again once he has taken a breath. “We’re going to open the Community Center – gosh, there’s so much to do, but isn’t it brilliant?”

“Yes, wonderful. Guess that call to the mayor paid off, didn’t it?”

“Call to the –” For a moment Charles has no idea what Nate is talking about, before he remembers that Nate knows the mayor personally, as well as several members of the committee that approved his motion. He can feel his smile falter slightly. “I thought I told you I could do it without your contacts.”

“I know, dear,” Nate soothes, wrapping his arms around Charles’ waist and drawing him closer. “I did it anyway. I know you’re good, but from what I could gather it would have been a close call. I knew how much this project means to you, so I made a few calls. Took some convincing, but eventually… Well, you heard the result. I did it for you, Charles.”

He is struck speechless for a moment. On the one hand he wants to be angry with Nate for going over his head like this, on the other he cannot fault him for his actions if it means the Center will be built. 

The latter wins out and Charles wraps his hands around Nate’s neck, looking deep into his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it.

* * *

_**Six and a half months** _

Nate asks Charles to move in with him into his flat in Lenox Hill on their six months anniversary, celebrated at one of Manhattan’s top restaurants and asked around a mouthful of desert. 

Charles feels like his heart would burst from joy. After years of fantasizing about sharing a life with someone it is finally happening, his boxes packed and his clothes transferred into Nate’s ridiculously impressive walk-in closet. 

Four days later, Nate suggests he take over Charles finances. 

“I studied business, after all. I know your knowledge is confined to genetics and physics, so it’s obvious that I am the one most qualified.”

Charles shrugs, glad at the prospect of not having to worry about filing his tax return anymore. He gives Nate access to his accounts and credit card bills, and his partner advises him on investments. 

“Three weeks ago you spent sixty-five dollars at Toys R Us… Care to explain why?” Nate asks the second month he is handling Charles’ finances. His tone is terse and both of his eyebrows are raised in an obviously judgmental manner. 

“Scott Summers presented at the Center that day, remember I told you he shoots laser beams out of his eyes? Well, I guess I didn’t mention that he destroyed both is and his brother’s favorite toys, so I promised to buy him new ones. Poor sod was terrified of what his parents might say. He was more worried about the toys than about his mutation.”

“So you spent sixty-five dollars on other people’s children?”

“I was able to help, so I did,” Charles insists, watching with mounting unease as Nate puts down the printout and steps towards him, his features tinted with disappointment. 

At times like this Charles wishes he were able to read at least surface thoughts off Nate in order to determine how to react, though the blankness leaves him completely in the dark. 

“Charles,” Nate huffs with a sigh of exasperation. “Considering the fact that you never had to waste much thoughts on money, you aren’t completely hopeless. But I must urge you to watch your spending habits – I’ve heard of enough wealthy New Yorkers who slowly but surely depleted their resources. And what then, Charles? How will you function without sufficient funds?”

“Now, now, it’s not that bleak,” he insists, raising his arms in a placating gesture. “Besides, I’m fairly sure Columbia is planning on offering me tenure in a few years, so I will never have to worry about my job again.”

“That’s years in the future. You shouldn’t speculate like that, Charles. Please believe me, I know these things.”

His shoulders slump. “I know, I just…”

“Yeah, darling. Trust me, okay?” Nate opens his arms, enveloping Charles in a warm embrace with Charles nodding against his chest. 

The following month, Charles starts keeping notes on some of his purchases, to make sure he can justify them when the credit card bills come.

* * *

_**One year** _

Charles is contemplating take-out menus, wondering what Nate might like tonight when his phone rings. It is Nate’s personalized ring tone and Charles feels a short stab of worry, given his partner only ever calls so close to the end of the workday when he is running late. 

“Hello, love,” Charles greets him, placing the menus back into their drawer. 

“Darling, listen, I’m sorry but I’m not going to make it tonight – a friend of mine’s having problems and needs a guys night out, okay?”

Charles understands, of course, and continues to busy himself with grading papers until he falls asleep on their state of the art leather sofa. 

The sound of the front door opening wakes him at two in the morning. 

“Oh shit, Charles, you didn’t need to stay up,” Nate greets him, swaying considerably on his feet as he peels off his jacket. 

“I didn’t,” Charles explains. “Must have fallen asleep.”

Nate does not seem to hear him, though. He wanders into the kitchen, filling a glass of water from the tap and downing it in a few gulps. 

“Who were you out with?” Charles asks, making his way over to the kitchen island and leaning against the counter. 

“Sebastian. You know, Shaw? ‘s going to be the new commissioner next year, for sure. Had relationship trouble, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, ‘is girlfriend’s a telepath, too, you know her?” Nate slurs. 

Charles shrugs. “Maybe, what’s her name?”

“Emma. Forgot her last name. Not important,” Nate declares, setting down the glass again. “Important is, though, that she’s been manipulating Sebastian, mentally, you know. Sebastian found out, confronted her, and bitch that she is, she lied about it. He said he’s gonna work on something that’ll shield him from other cunts like her. Probably just after his money, anyway.”

Charles’ jaw clenches. Nate is a vulgar drunk. Thankfully he does not overindulge too often. 

“Well, let’s get you to bed, love,” he says instead of reacting to Nate’s monologue, and makes to guide his partner, but he winds out of his grasp, pointing a finger at Charles. 

“You’re lucky you got me, babe, you know that? With me, y’can be sure you’re not manipulating me. I’ll never accuse you of that. Everyone else would, though. And they’d be right, too. Who knows what you telepaths’re doing to us? ‘s not like we’re gonna be able t’tell.”

“Nate, you know I would _never_ do that!” Charles protests vehemently.

Yet the other man merely considers him briefly, his eyes unfocussed, before he shrugs. “Nah, ‘course you’re saying that. But don’t worry, my dear, I love you nevertheless.” Nate pats him on the shoulder, then grips his wrist. “Now come on, been thinking of your tight ass the entire taxi ride back.”

Charles almost stumbles as Nate pulls him along, his thoughts still on how Nate said “nevertheless”, but soon his brain is directing its focus somewhere else as rough hands skirt over his skin and make quick work of prepping him. 

It is almost too little lube, since Nate’s judgment is maybe a tad off due to his level of inebriation, but Charles bites his lips as Nate whispers in his ear, constant streams of _love you, so tight fuck, so hot, damn, you’re mine_ until he can feel Nate climaxing inside him. Charles rubs himself against the mattress until he, too, finds release, turning around to kiss Nate, but his partner is already asleep next to him on the bed. 

Charles huddles close, placing his head on Nate’s strong chest, and relishes the soreness already spreading through his lower regions.

* * *

_**One year and four months** _

It is a stupid row, one neither of them will remember in two weeks, but right now it is the most pressing matter and they are both shouting at each other. Charles thanks the universe that the flat next to them is currently empty, with tours happening every few days, so there is no one next door to witness this. 

Charles knows he can be stubborn, it is maybe one of his greatest flaws, but Nate is just as bad. Neither of them is backing down and then suddenly Nate is right in front of him, pushing Charles back with two hands on his chest. 

Nate is muscular and powerful, though super strength is not his mutation, but it hurts, even more so when Charles stumbles back and crashes into the wall. He falls, his feet giving out, and cries from the pain. 

Nate is beside him in an instant. 

“Oh my god, Charles, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, please, are you alright?”

Charles nods faintly yet does not argue (a first tonight) when Nate makes him undress and inspects the irritated skin. 

“It’s going to bruise.”

“Good thing I’m fond of cardigans, isn’t it?” Charles jokes, wincing when the following chuckle hurts his chest. 

Nate smiles ruefully at him, eyes full of apologies, but Charles shakes his head minutely. He knows Nate didn’t mean to.

* * *

_**Two years** _

Charles looks at the email again, making certain that it really is addressed to him and not someone else in the field, before stepping up to Nate who is leafing through the newspaper from this morning. 

He thought Nate might be happy for him, taking the invitation as a sign of Charles’ advancing career, even if he is just a substitute speaker and one week is a little short notice, but Nate just gets this look, this look of disappointment that makes something hurt in Charles’ chest. 

“But babe, that’s awfully short notice.”

“I know, but it’s a great chance! I might actually be heard by someone with power to change some of the things I’m criticizing, Nate.”

The other man does not reply, though his cold glare speaks volumes. 

“I was asking you out of respect and because I love you, but I am in fact an adult and allowed to make my own decisions,” Charles continues tersely. “I am going to lecture at that conference, Nate. I’d be daft not to.”

Nate purses his lips, crossing his arms over his chest, a move that accentuates his muscular arms. “Well, I guess the fact that I wanted to invite you out to a gala doesn’t matter, does it?”

“What gala?” Charles looks on in confusion. This is the first he heard of any gala. 

“My firm is having a little gathering, just top investors. It might be a little dry for you since I’ll be explaining upcoming projects, but I was going to ask you to come. As my partner.”

“Nate, I –”

“But if that conference is more important than I, then okay, go.”

Before Charles can react, Nate throws his hands up, takes his newspaper and retreats to the sofa, pointedly ignoring Charles for the rest of the evening and giving him time to think. The thing is that Nate has never before taken him to such exclusive company events. The Christmas party, yes, but it was a large gathering. So this is a big deal. And really, what is one small conference in comparison to his loved one’s happiness?

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmurs as he opens the door to their bedroom where Nate is already lying beneath the covers, a book propped up in his lap. “You’re right. You’re more important. You’re bloody well the most important thing in my life, Nate.”

His partner regards him for a moment that seems torturously long to Charles, yet eventually he closes the book, carefully marking the page he stopped at, puts it on the nightstand and then beckons Charles towards him. Nate kisses him, soft and sweet, and one doesn’t need to be a telepath to be able to tell it is full of love and devotion. 

One of Nate’s hands appears at the back of his neck, gently but firmly pushing him down until Charles sees the bulge underneath the sheets and gets with the program, pulling back the covers and exposing Nate’s erection. 

Charles loves the noises Nate makes when he pleases him orally, how wild he can get, even if he sometimes holds him down a hint too long, choking him on his cock until the edge of his vision blurs but he always pulls back in time and the ensuing rush of air filling Charles’ lungs is a thrill of his own. 

Nate spills himself down Charles’ throat, then allows him to pull back enough to be able to lick him clean. When he has gathered up every drop, Charles shuffles upwards and tucks himself against Nate’s side. He is half-hard in his pajamas, though he knows better than to expect Nate to return the favor. It was more of an apology, anyway. Charles doesn’t deserve to get off tonight; he knows that. 

“I love you, too, Charles,” are the last words he hears before he falls asleep.

* * *

_**Two and a half years** _

Charles loves his sister with all his heart, has ever since he convinced his mother to adopt her when they were kids, but over the years they have grown apart. 

It’s no one’s fault, really – this is just how things go when one sibling joins the FBI and quickly becomes one of their most esteemed agents without being bound to any particular branch. Raven hardly stays long in one place, and the few weeks of holidays are not enough to keep them as close as they once were. 

Charles cannot bring himself to mind too much. Raven is happy, using her mutation to help people, resolving hostage situations, gathering information, infiltrating crime rings… He worries about her, sometimes, but she hasn’t been listening to his advice since the quarterback invited her out for prom, asking her to look like Jessica Alba. The night ended in tears, with Charles barely stifling the “I told you so” he felt entitled to say. 

Once a year, however, or twice when he is lucky, Raven will use a week or two of her vacation time to spend with him in New York. This time Charles is a tad weary given how subpar her last visit went with regards to Nate, whom Raven struck as too loud, too chaotic, too everything. The fact that Raven has taken to walking around naked in her blue form when inside his flat might not have helped much, either. 

So this time when Charles told him his sister was visiting in two weeks, Nate complained a bit, until Charles assured him that he would not invite Raven over to the flat if Nate was home as well, instead spending their evening in restaurants and Raven’s hotel. 

On the fourth day of her visit, Charles is going to meet her at the Center where Raven wants to take part in the Political Tuesday discussion centering on visible mutations. 

“Where are you going?” 

Charles steps out of the closet, buttoning up his cardigan as he does so. “Pardon?”

“You’ve been out three nights in a row,” Nate clarifies. “I was looking forward to spending time with you tonight.”

Charles’ shoulders slump as he takes in Nate’s sad expression. “I’m sorry, love, but I told you last week that Raven wanted to go to the Center. You could come too, if you’d like?”

“You know I don’t care about a bunch of housewives with nothing better to do than think their political opinions matter,” Nate grunts, loosening his tie and opening his dress shirt. 

“Now, no need to be rude; most of the guests are students and workers.”

“They still have no political capital, Charles.”

“Well, I didn’t used to either, and look at me now,” he replies primly. Only last week he gave an interview to someone from the International Mutant Tribune. 

Yet all Nate does is snort derisively. “Well, not everyone can have me in their lives.”

Charles’ hands clench before he can control the motion. _It’s no use arguing now, _he tells himself. _If you piss him off, he’ll make you stay home.___

So he agrees, stepping up to Nate who has since lost his shirt to the hamper. Charles strokes his hands down his partner’s bare chest, keeping his caress light as he watches Nate’s eyes darken. 

“How about, when I return later, I’ll let you try that [urethral plug](http://male.stockroom.com/Three-Joint-Urethral-Plug-P5334.aspx) after all?” Charles purrs, a thrill coursing down his spine as Nate shudders at the words.

Nate likes to experiment in bed, so sometimes he orders a few things to try. Most of the time Charles goes along with it, even if he has never really understood the need for toys in bed, but sometimes Nate’s ideas go a bit too far for his liking. 

When that happens, Nate will put the toy away for a while, asking again after a few days or weeks. He seems to know instinctively that what scares Charles off most of the time is the _idea_ of the new thing, not the thing in general. Given the time to get used to it, though, Charles will agree eventually. 

However, when Nate suggested inserting a plug into his urethra, Charles knew immediately that he would never, ever get used to the idea. 

Well. Things change. 

He feels a little bad about trying to manipulate his partner like this, but he really wants to see Raven once more before she flies back to DC in a few days.

“You really mean that?” Nate growls near his left ear, crowding him against the wall next to the closet door. When their hips press together, Charles can feel his partner is already half hard. 

“Yes,” he breathes, licking his lips. “After I return.” 

Nate’s smile is blinding and eases the anxiety while Charles is at the Center later, watching his sister argue with parents and students about being “Mutant and Proud” while hiding and conforming to human standards of beauty, her yellow eyes sparkling. 

The hint of fear returns when he unlocks the door to their flat, though Nate is so enthusiastic that Charles just gets swept up in it. Nate is careful, inserting the sterilized toy while running gentle fingers over Charles’ torso and hips, but even that cannot prevent his erection from wilting. Charles strains his mind, slightly panicked at the prospect he won’t be able to give Nate what he promised.

His body cooperates eventually, despite the clinical and alien feeling of the rod inside his urethra. Nate pulls it out after an eternity and then comes so hard that drops of his come hit Charles chin, trickling down his chest. 

He doesn’t notice that Charles does not follow him over the edge, something Charles is incredibly grateful for as he catches his breath while Nate begins to snore softly next to him.

* * *

_**Three years** _

“I was invited to a conference.” 

Charles’ voice is loud in the quiet bedroom, interrupting their sated afterglow. 

“What conference?” Nate asks, his eyes snapping open, immediately more alert. 

Charles swallows. He should have waited a little, he supposes. Nate is still a little angry from last week, when Charles ran late after an event at the Center and couldn’t call because his battery had died. Nate had not said a single word to him after he had explained, and his thrusts were harder that night as they made love, one hand pushing Charles face-first into the mattress. He had to white-knuckle his way through his lectures the following day and bought an emergency charger to keep at the Center afterwards, hating himself for being stupid enough not to have thought of it before. 

Yet waiting a few days would mean explaining that he had received the invite some time ago, which Nate would decidedly like even less. Charles does not need to be accused of keeping secrets. 

“A summit on early education, early mutant education. It’s in DC, Nate – with the Ministry for Education. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

“How long will you be away?”

Charles clears his throat. “Five days.”

Nate is silent for a minute. “That’s awfully long to be separated from you, love.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But I cannot let this opportunity slip past me. Not for the sake of my career and above all not for the sake of having someone at one of these things who actually knows what he’s talking about.” He takes Nate’s hand in his, adding, “You could come with me, take a short holiday. I’d love to have you by my side.”

Nate’s lips thin into a tense line. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Charles. I can’t just take off for a week like you can; I’m too important at the firm.”

“They aren’t going to go bankrupt just because you take some personal time, dear,” Charles remarks, regretting the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. 

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Charles,” Nate growls. “Running a business is serious work; my employees won’t be as happy about a week without me as your students.”

“Sorry, I know, it was a daft thing to say –”

“Damn right it was. Think about it next time before you ask stupid questions.”

Charles nods, sufficiently chastised. Three months later he flies to DC, incredibly prepared and ready to show these politicians how to improve their educational system. 

The five days are incredible: People listen to him, ask for his opinion and argue with him, can even be convinced of Charles’ arguments in some cases. His success won’t translate into immediate measures, but the ball is rolling in the right direction and he is on the Ministry of Education’s radar. 

The only sore spot is Nate’s absence. They talk every night on the phone, even have phone sex via video chat, but it’s not the same. Charles enjoys the dinners with the other participants as much as he can, despite how much he misses his partner. 

It is when he comes back, slightly jetlagged from the flight and happy to be home, that he realizes his mistake. 

The conference was in the media, not big but sufficiently so as to warrant a few pictures. In one of them Charles is seen talking to a tall, handsome man, a supplier of schoolbooks. 

“He’s married! He has a wife!” Charles protests as Nate pushes him against the kitchen counter, the edge of which is digging painfully into Charles’ lower back. 

“Like that means he won’t cheat on his wife,” Nate snarls. “Is that why you wanted to go so badly to that conference, huh? Knew there’d be men interested in your cheap ass? Aren’t I enough for you anymore?”

“No, nothing happened, please, I love you, only you,” Charles promises, over and over again. He should have told Nate about the other guests. He should have seen this coming. _Stupid, Charles. Epically stupid._

In the end, Nate slaps him for his oversight, hard enough that Charles falls and in his foolishness stretches out his left arm to stop the movement. He regrets it as soon as sharp pain sets his nerve endings on fire and he whimpers when Nate pulls him up. 

“Look what you’ve done now,” Nate admonishes, but he seems less angry now as he eyes Charles’ arm. It looks normal, even though it hurts. Nate sighs wearily. “You should probably see a doctor. Might be broken.”

“Yes,” Charles murmurs, biting his lip in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, though Nate remains stoic. 

“Sorry won’t cut it tonight, Charles. Go get yourself to an ER. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Charles nods, his heart breaking at the icy quality of Nate’s voice. He manages to pull himself together for the quick trip to the hospital (by subway, cabs are an unnecessary expense). 

“It’s a minor fracture,” the doctor assures him later, after x-rays and painkillers. “We’ll have to set it and you will have to wear a cast for about six or eight weeks, but there will be no lasting damage.”

They believed his excuse of slipping in the kitchen while cooking, thankfully. Sex is going to be difficult, Charles muses as he receives a waterproof cast and is sent home with instructions about follow-ups and what not to do. 

If Nate wants to sleep with him at all, that is. Charles’ eyes burn at the thought and he quickly shakes his head. No matter how badly Charles screws up, Nate never withholds sex. He might be a bit rougher at times, but at least he doesn’t take his touch away from Charles. 

The cast remains in place for seven weeks. Nate suggests tying him up a few days into the recovery, to make sure he does not overexert his arm. It’s not too bad, Charles figures.

_At least he did not leave me._

* * *

_**Three and a half years** _

Charles jerks awake in the middle of the night when his phone starts ringing. Nate grumbles next to him, shifting underneath the sheets without opening his eyes. 

“Hello?”

“Charles, this is Darwin, sorry to be callin’ so late but it’s an emergency,” comes the voice of one of the volunteers at the Mutant Community Center. Armando Muñoz is one of the calmest people Charles has ever met so when his frantic tone registers, Charles is immediately wide awake. 

“There was a fire,” he explains to Nate moments later. “Apparently a little girl’s powers manifested when her parents told her that her grandmother had died – lightning struck their apartment, the parents are overwhelmed and no one knows what to do with the girl –”

“So they called you?”

“One of the firemen works at the Center; and I do have a degree in psychology. I’ll be back as soon as I can, love.”

Nate does not seem happy in the slightest but allows himself to be soothed by a kiss and the promise of morning sex.

Charles finds the little girl still near the burnt-out flat, hiding underneath a park bench down the street with her parents a few feet away. The girl’s hair is becoming white as Charles talks to her, telling her about other children’s manifestation stories he heard over the years, about his own, about how everyone needs to learn control over their powers first. 

“No one is perfect, Ororo,” he tells her. “And it’s unfortunate that your flat is destroyed, but it was an accident. No one got hurt.”

“They’re afraid of me,” she sniffs, clear blue eyes darting over to her parents. 

“They are just in shock, my dear. They still love you, I promise you. Now what do you say to climbing out from under there? You must be exhausted. We’ll get you to a hotel.”

Suddenly, the phone in his pocket starts to vibrate. He ignores it even though the act makes a sense of dread spread through his chest. Nate hates being ignored. It is worth it, however, when Ororo’s parents, a colorfully dressed Kenyan woman and an American photojournalist as far as Charles is able to gather when he touches the surface of their minds, sweep her up into their arms and hold her tight to their chests. 

Charles hails them a taxi and brings them to the Community Center, which is equipped with a small number of rooms just for emergencies like this. He makes sure the family is settled and leaves some money behind given that all their papers have been lost in the fire. The spare clothes at the Center will have to do until they have organized their affairs. 

In all the chaos he completely forgot how many missed calls he has amassed by now, though another one reminds him just as he leaves the building, exhausted but content. 

“Nate, I’m sorry, I couldn’t answer my phone –”

“Was the world ending or something? Where the fuck are you? It’s six in the morning and you’re not here!”

“Oh, is it morning already?” Charles wonders, more to himself than anything else, as he looks around him and notices the clearing sky. 

“Yes, it damn well is. Where are you?”

“I just brought the family to the Center, I’ll be back in half an hour, alright? I could bring breakf-”

“I don’t fucking care about breakfast. I’ve been calling you for an hour and you didn’t think your partner deserves some information about your whereabouts? You said you’d be back as soon as possible, but you’re too disorganized to manage one simple phone call, aren’t you?” 

“What do you want me to do? I couldn’t just abandon a crying child because you were calling, Nate!”

“It’s not your job to take care of every kid in New York, Charles. They don’t fucking need you.”

Charles swallows, blinking rapidly as to quell the tears threatening to spill. He does not answer for a moment, which only serves to make Nate angrier. Charles tries his best to tune him out, though it proves to be in vain. 

In the end, Nate explains he has to leave early today, at six thirty, so he won’t be home when Charles returns. “I expect to find you in the apartment when I get back tonight, understood?”

“Yes, I’ll be there, my love, I promise,” Charles swears, pausing a moment on his way to the nearest subway station to lean against a tree and calm his nerves. 

“You better be, you worthless piece of ass,” is the last thing Nate snarls into the phone before the dial tone, and that sound is the last straw – Charles starts crying, sinking down along the trunk of the tree, the grass damp beneath his feet. 

It used to be so easy with Nate. He seemed happy with Charles, content. When did Charles start screwing everything up? He has to find a way to get a grip, because there will surely come a time when Nate won’t forgive him so easily. When Nate will say he has had enough, when he will leave, and the thought alone makes panic rise in Charles’ throat. 

He cannot lose Nate – he is nothing without him. He would never find anyone who would accept his mutation, who could just be with him without fear of manipulation. Nate is the only one for Charles.

* * *

_**Now** _

Charles does not tell Nate he is meeting a new acquaintance on Tuesday. The news will only trigger Nate’s jealousy, for which there is no need, and telling Nate he has to help Hank with his newest project is much more plausible anyway. 

Nate does not need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference: this is what a [urethral plug](http://male.stockroom.com/Three-Joint-Urethral-Plug-P5334.aspx) looks like, and [this is an article](http://www.nerve.com/love-sex/true-stories/sensible-sounding-why-i-inserted-a-metal-rod-into-my-penis-on-purpose) written by a man who tries sounding for the first time. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the feedback! All the comments and kudos make me incredibly happy :) You guys are awesome!  
> ( _*whispers* Keep it up..._ )


	4. Open-minded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The website I used to base some of the information of this chapter on can be found [here](http://www.dvrcv.org.au/help-advice/guide-for-families-friends-and-neighbours). 
> 
> Please see the end notes for translations of the Russian and German phrases. While my first language is German, I only had a little Russian in school, so if either of you spots a mistake, please don’t hesitate to tell me.

Erik is not known as a man who readily admits to being out of his depth. His attitude towards problems has always been action-based, often brute-forcing his way to a solution. 

As much as it might annoy him, however, this approach will definitely fail when it comes to Charles. So Erik does what the rest of the world seems to be doing whenever they encounter something that eludes them: he googles. 

He comes across a rather helpful site that tells him he should make his concerns known in a sensitive manner, something that has Erik shaking his head. He is many things, but sensitive is not one of them. That was one of the many reasons his last serious relationship didn’t work out. 

There are, however, quite a few useful tips he thinks can be adapted to his level of social skills. 

Listening, for example. Charles struck him as a person who likes to talk, so that might work out well. “Help them to recognize the abuse” seems prudent, yet Erik doesn’t really have much of an idea of how to apply this one. “Help them build confidence” is something he won’t even have to remind himself to do, though. Charles is an incredibly intelligent and kind person. Erik just needs to make a point of telling him that – or think it very loudly in his presence. 

The one thing Erik thought of doing, on the other hand, turns out to be a strict no-go in relation to domestic abuse victims: telling them to leave their abuser. For a moment he scoffs at the screen, scowling in disbelief. Yet the more he reads, the clearer it becomes that a person who is being controlled by their partner needs to make the choice to leave them on their own. 

Erik bites the inside of his cheek. This is why he’s in the MTU and all his plans involve grand destruction of property and potential loss of life (on the bad guys’ side). This endeavor is a recipe for disaster. 

Too bad he’s the only one out there to help.

* * *

Mission ‘Befriend Charles’ becomes a success a lot easier than Erik thought. 

He shows up at the Center on Tuesday, listens to a few of the speakers on the open stage, and once the discussion round begins he follows Charles to his office where an antique chessboard is already waiting. 

Erik raises an eyebrow, which earns him a chuckle. 

“It has been a while since I played, my friend. I could not resist the invitation.”

So they play. At one point Erik relaxes enough to move one of the rooks with his powers without even noticing it until Charles clears his throat. “Is that your power?” he asks, suitably impressed, and Erik spends a few minutes showing off by twisting his wrist bracelet (not so much an accessory as a potential weapon) into different shapes. 

Their conversation turns towards politics at one point and it becomes clear rather quickly that neither one of them is going to convince the other any time soon. 

“I’m afraid we’ll just have to meet again,” is Charles’ comment when Erik points that out. 

They do. Meet again, that is, on Thursday, starting the evening with a hearty debate on the newest polls regarding mutant-related prejudice that Erik knows to be misrepresented in its sunny optimism. Charles won’t hear of it, though, since it paints such a rosy picture of the state of the world. The only thing they can agree on that day is that Charles’ fourth move was what cost him his win in their current game. 

“Erik, дьявол, what’s eating you?” Azazel asks three hours into their shift on Friday. 

He raises an eyebrow, prompting his partner to elaborate. 

“You’re always silent, but you’ve never been this quiet before. I mean it. Are you sick? Did Shaw tell you anything about our punishment? They can’t really extend it any more, или?”

It’s interesting to note that Azazel only slips into his native language when he is either really worried or in a lot of pain. Usually Erik is on the receiving end of Russian crash courses when they have gotten themselves kidnapped or worse. It happens surprisingly often. 

“Erik?”

He glances at the other mutant, weighing his options. Azazel is basically his only friend, the only person who seems immune to Erik’s perfectionist tendencies and oftentimes stoic demeanor. Azazel knows about his past, about the blood on his hands, and still hasn’t run away. So Erik tells him about his suspicions and about how he is on his way to befriending Charles Xavier. 

Apart from wondering if he really has been telepathically influenced when he met the man (and cursing his inability to form stronger shields), Azazel does nothing to stop Erik. “Just be careful, мой друг,” he cautions. “That Dawson fellow is probably incredibly well connected. You shouldn’t piss him off unless you can arrest him in the same moment, okay?”

Erik could live with that, he finds.

* * *

Evenings of chess and discussion become a thing for them. Erik does not even have to try; it just sort of happens as they each invite Erik back again and again. He also finds himself genuinely _liking_ Charles despite his naïve views and soppy, idealist attitude. He’s just _Charles_. There is probably no one in the world that could dislike him. 

Needless to say, it amuses Azazel endlessly. 

“You know he’s got a boyfriend, right?” he teases Erik three weeks after the first chess game. Erik throws the rest of his turkey hot dog at him in an attempt to show him how ridiculous he is being, only to have Azazel blink out of existence and reappear right behind him. Erik rolls his eyes and buys another hot dog. 

In revenge Erik forces Azazel to accompany him to the Mutant Community Center’s celebration of Mutant Visibility Day. It falls on a bright and sunny June Saturday, almost a month prior to the star-spangled craziness that Americans call the Fourth of July and the area around the building is filled with little stands and so many people that Erik almost turns around again right away. 

“Nah, you dragged me here, you’re staying,” Azazel decides, anticipating Erik’s break for solitude. 

One cup of coffee and almost being shot by one of the brats running around later, Azazel freezes next to him, his jaw dropping. Erik, a little worried, follows his gaze until it lands on a… truly magnificent creature. She is blue, entirely blue, with red hair and wearing a sundress in an alarming shade of yellow that she somehow manages to make look good. Erik has always appreciated the more visible mutations, and she is the embodiment of Mutant And Proud. 

Incidentally, she is talking to Charles. 

Before Erik can formulate a suggestion, Azazel’s fingers close around his wrist and he teleports them across the grass where they materialize right in front of the blue-skinned lady and the telepath. 

“Erik, why don’t you introduce me to your chess rival, who can then introduce me to the most beautiful woman in all of Manhattan.”

“Oh, where?” the woman pretends to asks, looking around as if to find who Azazel is talking about. She sobers quickly, turning a brilliantly white smile at the newcomers. “You must be Erik. Charles has been complaining you’re beating him at chess.”

“He does win sometimes,” he states, not to be teasing but because it is true, shaking her proffered hand and watching in exasperation as Azazel kisses her hand as he introduces himself. 

Before Erik can blink the two of them are wandering off, talking animatedly about something or other. Apparently Erik looks adequately dumbfounded, for Charles laughs merrily. 

Well, there are worse things. At least now Azazel will owe him for dragging him along to the event.

* * *

Charles loves how Raven’s latest visit coincides with Mutant Visibility Day, even though he couldn’t convince Nate to come with them. 

“I have a deadline,” was all he said before returning his attention to the laptop in front of him. 

Maybe it is for the best – Charles cannot imagine a universe in which a meeting between Erik and Nate would go over well. Erik lets himself be led around the premises while Charles tells him about the different stands and the mutants responsible for them, about children that pass them by and how much progress Ororo has already made ever since she started coming to classes. 

“How come you’re not charging for them?” Erik asks, his eyes on the small, fluffy cloud Ororo has conjured up a few feet away to the applause of her father. 

“What do you mean?” Charles asks, because sometimes Erik has different ideas about different things, and if neither of them makes sure they understand what the other means it will only lead to tremendous misunderstandings. 

“Well, you’re providing a very specialized service to a lot of people, especially human parents of mutant children,” Erik points out. “Others would make a fortune with that.”

“They shouldn’t have to pay for someone to help them control their abilities,” Charles immediately argues back. “There are courses for human students with special abilities, whether these have positive or negative effects on their learning speed, and those don’t cost anyone a cent since the state pays for them. Mutants should have the same prerogative.”

For a moment Erik doesn’t reply. He simply regards Charles, projecting a warm feeling, something like pride. 

“You’re too noble for this world, Charles.” 

Charles can but shrug, duck his head and fight off a blush. He decides it is safer to flee towards Ororo, so he does, encouraging the girl to make the cloud do something. Snow in summer would be impressive. 

When the cloud bursts, however, it is not with snow. It rains. Too bad Charles is standing exactly underneath it to show Ororo he is not afraid of her abilities. 

Erik smirks at him while Ororo starts apologizing over and over again until Charles can finally convince her that he really is not angry with her. 

“I have spare clothes in my office for just such an occasion,” he explains, shaking out his hair and spraying water everywhere. His white shirt is clinging rather tightly to his chest and his pants are slightly uncomfortable. 

Erik is trying to stifle his comments as he accompanies Charles to his office. 

“Just say it, Erik,” Charles tells him, though he can admit to being more amused than annoyed.

The other man feigns innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Charles insists, rummaging in his cabinets for towels. After he has been triumphant, he holds one out to Erik. “Do you need one as well?”

“No, you’re the only one trying to start a wet shirt contest.”

“Very funny, Erik.”

“You should be glad your sister hasn’t seen it. She strikes me as the type of person who enjoys embarrassing their siblings.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Charles groans, rubbing his hair dry while constricted by his shirt. He picks up on something, not a surface thought yet still quite loud. More of a feeling – something like a flare of heat right in the pit of his stomach. 

It feels like desire, and it’s coming from Erik, whose cheeks redden a tad when Charles’ eyes seek out his. 

_Huh._ Erik finds Charles attractive. He is not sure what to do with that information. It is a nice sentiment, especially coming from a man like Erik. Who might not know that Charles is unavailable, he realizes suddenly, so he says, “Oh, my friend, I’m flattered. However I have a partner –”

“I know,” Erik quickly cuts him off, and there are images floating to the surface of his mind, ones that Charles recognizes as some of the few articles written about him. “I’m usually much better at shielding thoughts like that –”

“I’m sorry,” Charles hurries to say, feeling his pulse spiking. “I wasn’t looking for anything, I swear, it’s just that it was rather loud and –”

“I know,” Erik interrupts him again. “You don’t need to apologize, Charles. It’s not a problem.”

Charles has trouble believing that statement, though. “Are you certain? If my telepathy ever makes you uncomfortable, I could completely understand if you wanted to take your leave.”

But Erik is shaking his head, rather vehemently so, and even the surface thoughts that register are firm in their conviction. “I am. God, Charles, your ability is incredible. I would never ask you to muzzle it for anyone’s sake.”

“Well, my ability is a little more invasive than others.”

“So? It’s not your fault you were born this way.”

“No, but it is my responsibility to use it in a responsible manner,” Charles insists, running the towel through his hair one last time. “Could you…?” He trails off, motioning towards the emergency shirt he just pulled out of his desk drawer. 

Erik nods and immediately retreats out of the room, closing the door. 

“Haven’t recent studies shown that it requires a lot of skill and energy to maintain impenetrable telepathic shields for extended periods of time?” comes Erik’s voice a few moments later, muffled by the door. “Surely no one can be ignorant enough to require you to do that twenty-four-seven.”

“The shields come easy to me. They just relax when I do and forget to strengthen them. Privacy is important.”

“You can’t ignore your powers to please others, Charles,” Erik argues back, and Charles has no trouble inferring whom Erik refers to as _other_ in this scenario. 

“I can, and I have.”

Erik’s sigh is loud enough to be heard through the door. “You shouldn’t need to.”

“Well, and Ororo shouldn’t have problems with her school admission, but the world is not a utopian fantasy.”

Charles finally manages to close the last button of his new shirt after tucking it into the pair of emergency trousers. Unfortunately his new shirt is a light blue instead of white, so people will notice he changed clothes. 

“Now we’re going to inspect the cake selection,” Charles announces in a tone that will hopefully brook no further arguments. 

Erik remains silent on the topic for the remainder of the afternoon, allowing himself to be subjected to becoming a guinea pig for the students’ baked creations and generally humoring every idea Charles has. Of course Erik beats him by a considerable margin at Coconut Shy, but then Erik is a skilled MTU specialist trained to hit his targets. Erik wins a large stuffed shark, which he immediately hands over to a beaming Charles, with the words, “For the Center.” 

“I’m glad you preserving your masculinity has given us another toy,” Charles teases and earns an eye roll. 

“We’re going out for dinner, alright?” Raven tells them around six in a tone that makes it clear they are not invited to join them. Azazel grins at Erik, white teeth a stark contrast to his red skin and black hair. 

Erik and Charles grab something from a stand and retreat to their chessboard where they get seven moves into the first game before Erik resumes their discussion from before. 

“You can, with me, you know.” At Charles’ questioning gaze, he elaborates. “I mean, you have permission to pick up on my surface thoughts any time you like. You don’t need to shield yourself. It’s unnecessary.”

Charles swallows around the lump that has, unbidden, manifested in his throat. He should argue, he thinks; insist on actively ignoring Erik’s thoughts, especially given this afternoon’s revelation that he finds Charles attractive. But the sentiment behind Erik’s words is true and it has been so long since Charles received this kind of… trust. 

“Thank you, my friend.”

Erik simply smirks and takes his queen. “Maybe now that your attention isn’t divided between your shields and the game, you might actually win sometime.” 

“Oi, I win!”

Erik’s reaction is to checkmate him within three moves. Charles is too busy laughing to care.

* * *

“Does your boyfriend ever come by the Center?” 

Charles looks up from where he was studying the board. Two weeks have passed since Mutant Visibility Day and Charles has eased into lowering his defenses around Erik, relishing the feeling of freedom it brings. He likes Erik’s mind, he found quickly. It is bright and complicated. There are a lot of locks in place underneath the surface, locks Charles respects as a general rule, but other thoughts fly at him freely, like colorful leaves in autumn. 

“No, it’s not quite his thing.”

“Really? What does he do?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “The gossip magazines didn’t specify?” It still puts him a little on edge, simply using information he gathered through his ability, but Erik does not take offense. Erik never takes offense, except for when they are arguing about politics. 

This time he snorts. “They said he’s the CEO of Stealth Solutions Inc., but I can’t see how that’s going to take up all of his time.”

“Oh, he has friends he goes out with, and he really does work a lot. He attended the opening, though. Well,” Charles adds, “it’s basically because of him that we were able to open in the first place, so he had a vested interest in the proceedings.”

“I thought your campaigning and lobbying did that?” Erik asks, as it seems genuinely confused. 

“I did, but Nate – that’s his name,” Charles clarifies, “Nate has a lot of connections and he talked to a lot of important people in order to help. I doubt we’d have been granted permission without him.”

“Nonsense,” Erik is quick to reply and Charles is surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. “You’re a brilliant man, Charles. It was your idea and your efforts that made this happen. You’re too humble.”

“I’m merely truthful.”

“Well, I think you should give yourself more credit. How is the proposal for the pilot project going?”

“Well, I think,” Charles answers slowly. He told Erik about it soon after they started playing chess together: Charles, in cooperation with several workers at the Center and others from several universities in the city, put forth a proposal for a pilot project in mutant-specific education. The State of New York is currently debating it, has been debating it for weeks now, and there is finally hope for a decision. 

Erik spreads his hands, palms up, as if to say “So there”. Charles chuckles and returns his attention on the game, trying to ignore the warm feeling that the praise has elicited in his chest.

* * *

Charles is not the best with technology. It’s not that he cannot use a computer, because he can – is even able of constructing PowerPoint presentations that keep his students’ attention instead of boring them to death. It’s just that when he tries something new on his own and it does not work immediately or something goes wrong, he panics. It is a valid fear given that he once broke Raven’s computer during high school. 

So Charles has never really gotten into social media, and never seen any reason to. But three months ago Hank decided it was time for the Community Center to have a Facebook page and announce events online and maybe promote other initiatives and now it’s booming and Hank has been giving impromptu speeches on why Charles needs to create his own profile. 

“I’m sure even Lehnsherr has a Facebook!” Hank eventually shouts near the end of June, throwing his hands up in frustration. “And he’s the most anti-social person I know!”

“Erik isn’t anti-social,” Charles protests, decidedly confused by Hank’s raised eyebrows. 

“You’re the only person he willingly talks to whenever he’s here. But that’s not the point –”

“Yes, what _is_ the point?”

“The point is that social media is a wonderful way of furthering a cause and it has helped the Center in many ways and even brought in a few donations, just ask Amanda, she’ll gladly show you the finances –”

“I get that, Hank,” Charles interrupts, “but why do _I_ need a profile?”

Hank delves into an entire list of reasons, from becoming more approachable to gaining the chance of helping people who are too shy to come by in person, and thirty minutes later Charles has a Facebook, including a profile picture in which he does not look like every cliché of the tottery professor like on his faculty profile over at Columbia (at least according to his sister). The picture was taken in a bar the last time Raven visited, showing Charles only in a shirt that is open at the collar. 

“This is exactly what I mean,” Hank had insisted. “This makes young mutants who just discovered their powers want to talk to you.”

By the time Charles is on his way back to the flat he has already gained thirteen friends (mostly volunteers from the Center who are never anywhere without their phones, which apparently give them notifications when someone sends them a friend request) and cannot wait to tell Nate about his foray into social media. 

Nate’s company has a strong online presence for a manufacturer of stealth enhancements, so he will undoubtedly be proud of Charles for finally arriving in the 21st century. 

Unfortunately, the scowl that meets him when he enters the flat tells a different story. 

“What is it?” Charles asks immediately, watching the vein in Nate’s neck throb in trepidation. 

“You’re on Facebook.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Yes,” Charles explains anyway because the anger in Nate’s eyes is making him nervous. “Hank has been bugging me for ages, says it’ll help the Center and that I can communicate with those too afraid to ask for help in person.”

“That’s very noble of you, Charles, but who thought that picture was a good idea?”

“Picture?” He narrows his eyes, because he has only uploaded the one of himself and his cover is a panorama pic of the Center taken on Mutant Visibility Day. 

Nate grabs his phone from the kitchen counter, thumbs the screen and a few moments later holds it out for Charles to look. It shows his profile picture. 

“What’s wrong with it? Hank said it made me look more approachable than the one from Columbia.”

“It makes you look easy,” Nate snarls. “Where was that even taken? And why did you have your shirt unbuttoned? Were you out with –?”

“– with Raven,” Charles intervenes, cold dread forming a lump in his stomach. “When she last visited and she said she didn’t have enough current pictures of me so she took that one. And it doesn’t make me look easy!”

“It does. It won’t matter who you’ve tagged as your boyfriend, you’ll get all sorts of propositions. Or do you want that? Do you like the thought of total strangers jerking off to your picture?”

“What – no! No one’s going to –” Charles starts, but then Nate is in his personal space and shoves him, his fist connecting with his ribs, pushing all the air out of his lungs. 

“Exactly, because you’re going to change it to something more decent,” Nate growls in his ear, pinning him against the fridge. “No one wants you to flaunt yourself online; there’re enough teens already doing that. So you’re going to change it and show it to me after I get back from my dinner.”

“Dinner?” Charles echoes stupidly, trying to remember if Nate said anything this morning. 

“Yes, with Sebastian. We have a few things to discuss about the newest equipment.”

Nate releases him suddenly, causing Charles to stumble but he manages to regain his balance in time to remain on his feet. The front door slams shut shortly afterwards while Charles is still trying to control his breathing. 

_Damn it._ Why didn’t he think of that? Hank, as a straight man, would not have thought of that, obviously. Charles pushes his palm against his forehead with more force than he intended and promptly hisses in pain. 

It feels like his ribs are bruised. _Bloody hell._ Charles curses and makes his way to the bathroom to retrieve some pain medication. At least they are not broken or cracked, he muses as he waits for the pills to take effect so that he can work on his new profile picture. Once Nate lost his temper and broke them by accident. It had hurt, but Nate had done everything in his power to make sure Charles healed, had even helped Charles ice them and picked up more pain meds on his way home from work. 

Charles sighs when he sits down in front of his computer to look for an alternative. He likes his current picture, he can admit that, but Nate has a point. He wants to be perceived as respectable, not like a tart looking for online hookups. 

So he changes his picture to one taken at his last speech at the Community Center, showing him smiling at something a person in the audience had said, standing at the podium in a button up and cardigan. 

When Nate returns hours later he smiles at Charles and kisses him softly. “Thank you, darling,” he says and relief floods Charles veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m reading too many The Social Network fanfics. I blame all the Facebook feels I’m currently having for the last scene… 
> 
> Translations:  
> дьявол = damn [actually "the devil", but works better here; thanks to [unomo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unomo/pseuds/unomo) for pointing that out!]  
> или = can they? [it actually means "or" and I hope using it as a question tag isn’t overly wrong]  
> мой друг = my friend


	5. Epiphanies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title might suggest, we are heading straight for the climax of this story. Enjoy the ride, y'all :)

Erik drops by the Center on the last Friday of June after his shift. For once something of note happened on his workday, because where they usually only get a few petty crimes today dispatch called on them for a 10-20. 

When they reached the apartment complex the robbery was still in process and after two months of boredom Azazel and Erik finally got a chance to be the perfect crime-fighting team that they are again. 

At the end of the day the homeowner was unharmed, all his things still in his possession, while the perpetrator himself was pinned to a wall with metal shackles. 

It is only after the reports have been filed when Erik is already making his way towards Central Park that he notices his first thought upon completing his shift featured Charles. As in, _I cannot wait to tell Charles._

Erik shakes his head as he exits the subway, trying to banish such thoughts to the depths of his mind. _Charles has a partner_ , he reminds himself. Said partner might be an abusive waste of space and oxygen, granted, though Erik has no right to force Charles’ hand in this situation. 

Erik finds the professor outside the main doors in conversation with a young couple, their son bouncing around their feet (literally, since his mutation seems to be something that allows him to bounce off the floor when he falls). Charles looks up when Erik gets close, breaking into a smile. 

“What happened?” he asks immediately after bidding the parents goodbye. 

“It’ll be easier to show you,” Erik offers and is proud when Charles barely hesitates before placing two fingers against his own temple. 

Charles entering his mind is like a warm breeze, feather light and gentle, yet so confident and competent, much like the man himself. 

“The way you and Azazel work together is incredible,” Charles comments, looking sufficiently impressed. “One day you must tell me more about both of your initial training.”

“Not tonight?” Erik wonders, unable to keep his smile from faltering a little. 

Charles shakes his head, a rueful look in his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend, but I have dinner plans with Nate soon. He only invited me along this morning, or else I would have informed you.”

“No worries,” Erik replies out of pure reflex. 

“But here, take a flyer for our Fourth of July –”

That is as far as Charles makes it before wincing, a hiss escaping him with his exhale. 

Erik is by his side immediately. “Are you alright?” 

Charles, though, waves him off. “It’s nothing, just a cramp. Has been bothering me all day. Don’t tell Hank or he’ll feed me spinach for a week again.”

“This happened before?” 

Erik squints at Charles’ ribs without having to feign the worry. What he does have to hide, however, are the suspicions that immediately bubble up in his chest along with red, hot anger. He quells it, closing if off from ever bursting to the forefront of his mind. 

“Sometimes. I’ve been to the doctor, so I know it’s nothing serious. I just have to watch my leafy greens, I guess.”

Charles smiles and Erik wishes he could break that fucker in half. _Verdammtes Arschloch._

“As long as you’re sure,” is what he says after a pause that is slightly too long. 

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. But you should really take a flyer,” Charles insists, successfully switching the topic. 

Erik accepts the brochure and sees Charles out the door, one arm covering his side without seeming to notice doing so. The paper crumples in Erik’s grip. He can feel his anger touching every hint of metal in the vicinity, threatening to make it shake and tremble. 

So he makes a hasty retreat, sends a text to Azazel who takes him to the MTU gym without a word. They make it through changing into workout clothes and five minutes of warm up before Azazel breaches the topic of why Erik thought Friday night to be a great time for brushing up on close-combat skills. 

“Charles’ ribs were hurting,” Erik grinds out, then turns and executes a high kick where Azazel materializes a split second later, only to vanish once more before his foot can connect with anything other than thin air. 

“You sure it’s from his partner?” 

Azazel blinks into existence to his left and attacks as soon as the words have let his mouth. Erik ducks, deflecting Azazel’s next move with two long metal rods he just shaped out of his bracelet then swings one at the teleporter. The metal never hits its target. 

“He lied, said it’s a cramp. Like I don’t know what a bruised rib looks like, _verflucht nochmal_!”

“No need to get all vulgar on me. You’re working on it, не так ли?” 

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” Azazel comes to a stop right in front of him, his gaze quizzical. 

“The problem,” Erik growls, “is that I want to tear that monster apart, plan be damned.”

He knows he said too much as soon as the last word is out. Azazel’s eyes widen and he gives a low whistle. “Wow, Lehnsherr. Never figured loud-mouthed professors were your type.”

Erik is done with their conversation, he decides, and only reacts with a grunt. He throws another rod at his partner, who is still enough in shock that he misses the object flying towards him. It hits him in the chest, throwing him back, and Erik feels vindicated.

* * *

Charles is in his office at Columbia when he gets the call. 

It will probably turn out to be the most important call he has ever received, career-wise at least, and knowing it will come today has left him jittery since he left the house. 

Ever since the Center shaped up to be a success, Charles’ focus has shifted more and more towards education. He has been a keynote speaker at a few events, has spent a lot of time talking with Congressmen (mostly mediated through Nate given his sphere of influence) and a few months ago even drafted a proposal for a pilot project to test how mutant-specific education might look like. Charles’ biggest hope is that such an individualized approach will affect how non-mutants are taught as well, but that is too far off in the future. 

The proposal, however, has been point of discussion of a committee and one of Charles’ most reverent allies has shot Charles a message informing him that a decision might be reached today. 

The clock says it is close to five when he admits defeat, opting to abandon the essays he has to grade until tomorrow when his concentration is not in shambles. 

Then the phone rings. 

It is Marianne Dexter, said ally. “It passed!” she says, her voice shaking with delight. As a mother of two five-year-olds with visible mutations, it is obvious why she is this invested in the cause. “You’ll get permission for the pilot project, and the funding! Not too much, mind you, but –”

Charles interrupts her with unintelligible expressions of happiness, left absolutely dazed as he falls back into his chair after ending the call. 

_I have to tell Erik._

It is the first thought on his mind after a quick calculation of how much he is going to have to shift his schedule to be able to hash out the project details. 

Then the thought registers. Charles freezes. 

_Oh._

_But it can’t be_ , Charles thinks, his pulse spiking as something like panic or dread constricts his chest. _I have a partner._ Charles runs a hand through his hair, thoughts tumbling over one another inside his head. _Well, Erik is attracted to me – maybe he projected his emotions and that fooled me into…_

No. His shields are impenetrable when he wants them to be and Erik’s surface thoughts are only as loud or present as the man decides to make them. It can only be Charles’ own attraction that makes him think of Erik before Nate.

_Bloody hell._

* * *

Charles’ little epiphany might have thrown him into a dither, yet it does not change the fact that he has just received amazing news and needs to share it before he bursts with joy. 

So he puts any sensations other than that aside, locking them away in the nooks and crannies of his mind as he makes his way to the Center, texting Hank on his way. 

Hank is obviously just as happy, immediately plunging into a litany of things that need planning, never mind that the official message has yet to be delivered. Once Hank returns to overseeing the children’s Wednesday afternoon art club, all that is left for Charles to do is pace for twenty more minutes until he feels a familiar mind approaching. 

“Charles, what – ?” Erik begins, but Charles talks over him. 

“They approved it! Erik, they approved it! We’ll do the pilot project with personnel from the Center,” Charles blurts, babbling on in his excitement and trying studiously to ignore how something flutters in his stomach when Erik’s lips curl into a smile, a real smile that reaches his eyes as well as his mind. 

“Congratulations, my friend,” he says when Charles forces his mouth shut after several minutes of excited rambling. “I’m proud of you.”

“Well, it wasn’t me alone,” he immediately concedes. “Hank put in just as many research hours as I did, maybe even more, and without Nate’s contacts I doubt anyone would have even _listened_ to my pitch –”

“Charles,” Erik interrupts, his tone firm enough to silence him. “I mean it. You did well. Of course there were helpers, but it’s your brainchild, your proposal. And, if I remember correctly, your property they will use as school grounds. You have all the right to be proud.”

Charles is incapable of replying to this, given how his heart is currently beating in his throat, so all he does is smile so widely it hurts his cheeks after a minute. Erik asks him about what happens now, apparently content with listening to Charles chatter on about procedures and how he hopes they will be able to start teaching in early 2016. 

When it is time for Charles to go home he feels so light and happy he thinks he might start floating soon. Erik’s pride-filled pat on the back certainly is not helping. 

So the first thing Charles does as Nate walks into their flat is attack him with a passionate kiss, which turns into rather enthusiastic sex as soon as Nate hears the news. 

Nate does not say he is proud of Charles but he can feel it in his touch, rough and possessive against his skin, hot breath in his ear. While he is reheating the takeout he collected in celebration on his way back, Charles allows himself one moment to fantasize about Nate actually praising him out loud. Something aches in his chest as he recalls how easily the words fell from Erik’s lips, though Charles stifles those thoughts quickly. 

He glances at his partner reading a business magazine at the dinner table. He cannot imagine Erik in the same position, no matter what the man is feeling. It wouldn’t last. Erik might like his telepathy now when he only witnesses it and shares his mind three or so times a week. Soon, Erik would start to hate the invasion of privacy, like Nate told him happened with his friend Sebastian and his partner Emma.

Charles shakes his head, reaching for the plates. Nate is the only one able to put up with him and his powers and Charles knows it. 

There is no need to imagine things that will never come to pass.

* * *

Charles’ life implodes a week later. 

It starts like any other Thursday with classes, lunch at the cafeteria and more classes full of bright and sometimes tired young minds. Charles has been brimming with energy ever since the pilot project was officially green lighted last Friday and the university has specified their cooperation as well as agreed to loan Charles out and reduce his classes when the project begins. 

The day continues like every other Thursday in the past few weeks as well, in the effect that Charles goes to the Center after his last class, answers a few question from Pyotr about why it is unfair of him to use his enhanced speed during ball games, and welcomes Erik once the man arrives after his shift. 

Apparently he had to deal with a rather daft robber today who turned out to be a mutant who could fly, so the ensuing chase should have been thrilling but wasn’t since the suspect apparently failed to notice Azazel’s ability. “At least our suspension is over soon,” he finishes with a groan. “The criminals the MTU deals with are at least more skilled in their chosen field.”

“I’m sure they will organize a heist of epic proportions just to welcome you back,” Charles teases, placing Erik’s cup of coffee next to Charles’ tea. 

“They’d better,” Erik grumbles, though his mood picks up during their first chess match. 

Given that Charles currently seems incapable of talking about anything else than the pilot project and given that Erik always humors him, their conversation quickly turns towards the specifics of classes and organization that Charles has started hashing out with the people from the government. 

“You should teach martial arts classes as well,” Erik suggests. “The younger they learn to defend themselves, the better.”

“I’m not teaching children how to fight!” Charles protests immediately. “I want to equip them to coexist with others, not beat them up.”

“Others aren’t that considerate, Charles. Do you know how many human-on-mutant hate crimes the NYPD gets each month? Each week?”

“Yes, and perpetuating violence is not a solution.”

It is a variation of their long-standing argument about integration versus segregation, a conflict between Erik’s narrow-minded pessimism that Charles fails to grasp and his own burning optimism he knows to be right. 

They have stayed away from this particular topic for some time now, seeing as their rows never yield productive results, but now they are at it again. 

“Self-defense can always be turned around and used as a weapon, Erik,” Charles insists, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. 

They are both standing now, facing each other. Charles can feel the frustration pouring off the other man in waves though it only serves to harden Charles’ resolve. 

“Not giving them the means to protect themselves isn’t going to make humans suddenly love us either!”

“Do you remember what happened to the last teenaged mutant who struck back against his attackers? Only he didn’t know he had a secondary mutation of super strength so he ended up putting them in a coma,” Charles implores. “That teenager is currently in prison, Erik, because he thought fighting violence with violence was a great idea when he didn’t even know himself sufficiently enough to realize if his actions might have unforeseen repercussions.”

“So you say he should have accepted the beating? Roll over and heel before an inferior species?”

“For the last time, they are _not_ another species,” Charles snaps. “And just because you are incapable of thinking before you act doesn’t make it the perfect solution for every situation of every other mutant, you stubborn hot-headed brute!”

Charles freezes as soon as the words are out there, just for a split second of blind panic before Erik takes a step towards him, expression thunderous. 

Charles reacts instinctively, without his brain giving his body permission. 

He flinches, jumping back and colliding with a shelf, his limbs locked down and unable to move as he stares at Erik with fear coursing through his veins. 

The anger in Erik’s features vanishes immediately as the man pales, much to Charles’ confusion. 

“You thought I was going to –” Erik begins, trailing off before taking a breath and shaking head. “Oh no, Charles, I would never hit you.”

“I didn’t think you’d hit me,” he lies immediately. 

Erik’s eyes are soft. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

Bewildered, Charles reaches out with his mind, slipping into Erik’s head and taking a look, only a brief one, just to find out what Erik is seeing right now when he looks at Charles and what he finds makes Charles’ stomach turn. 

He sees himself, pale and tense, gripping the shelf behind him, and to Erik he appears frightened – no, not frightened. Terrified. He is terrified and Erik knows it. 

Charles gasps, losing his grip on the shelf as well as his balance. Erik is next to him in a heartbeat, steadying him with a hand on his arm, bare underneath rolled-up sleeves. 

The physical contact only serves to amplify the mental link and Charles falls, deeper and deeper into Erik’s memories before he can stop himself. Sees what Erik saw, feels what Erik felt, his perception of Charles and Nate. Relives Erik researching how to help those suffering from domestic abuse and wants to scream _No, that’s not what’s going on!_ but the words die in his throat as he glimpses how hundreds of small incidences add up to one glaring, ugly truth. 

Erik steps back, pulling his hands away and breaking the connection. 

“ _Oh Gott_ , Charles, are you alright?”

He cannot answer. His throat is dry, his muscles denying him their cooperation. He nods, then reaches out, tentatively. _Yes. I need to think. Please go._

“Are you sure? You’re upset.”

_Please, Erik. I do not want to talk to you right now._

The effort Erik makes to listen and take in Charles’ word is visible in the squaring of his shoulders, in how he swallows. “Fine. But you have my number – if there is anything, _anything_ at all, just call me, alright?”

Charles nods numbly and, still hesitant about it, Erik retreats, leaving Charles alone in his office, alone with his mind. 

* * *

He loses track of how long he sits there. It might have been minutes; it might have been an hour. The fingers of the clock on the wall have lost their meaning to Charles as he works through what he saw in Erik’s mind. 

He thinks back to the night Erik and Azazel came by, to how his back hurt, and from then on it is an unstoppable flood of memories. 

Nate’s fist connecting with his ribs. A broken arm. The constant calls about where Charles is. How Charles has learned to navigate Nate’s moods, to manipulate them when he needs to. How Charles denies himself things more often than not because he knows Nate will criticize him when he does Charles’ finances later. 

How Charles is terrified of what will happen if Nate ever finds out about his chess games with Erik.

He was blind. He was too in love to see Nate’s faults and by the time the honeymoon period was over he had grown so used to Nate’s antics that they never gave him pause. Charles believed everything Nate told him. Believed with all his heart that Nate is the only one able to love him. 

Still believes it, if he is being honest. 

_Then I’d rather be alone than with him._

The conclusion startles Charles in its clarity, though he knows it is the only right thing to do. He needs to end things with Nate, as soon as possible. Maybe Nate will love him enough to seek help, but before that happens, Charles needs to get out. Immediately. 

He breathes in slowly and deeply, blinks and only now notices how wet his cheeks are. The clock makes more sense now, telling him it is seven at night. Nate told him that morning he was going out with Sebastian after work, so he won’t be back at the flat until ten or eleven, given that it is a work night. 

The plan presents itself easily: go home. Pack the most important things. He doubts informing Nate in person of his decision would go over well so Charles contemplates alternatives as he exits the Center, not even bothering to bid Hank and the others goodbye. 

And to think the day started out as just another Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the way I rendered Charles' epiphany seems as organic to you as it did to me when I was writing it. Either way I wish I could hug fictional characters... Charles definitely needs one!
> 
> Translations:  
> Verdammtes Arschloch = fucking asshole  
> verflucht nochmal = damn it  
> Oh Gott = oh god [I know that one was impossible to infer^^]  
> не так ли = question tag [respectively the Russian equivalent in that sentence]


	6. Escalation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really excited about how you’re all going to react to this! *nervously-biting-her-nails* I also somehow managed to put an H50 reference into this chapter. Virtual cookies to everyone who spots it ;) 
> 
> Translations for German and Russian phrases as well as for police codes can be found in the end notes.

Charles walks, southward down the eastern border of Central Park, on the one hand because he needs the fresh air and on the other because he knows he is not focused enough to shut out all the people on the subway. 

He is five blocks away from his – _their_ , yes, Nate’s and his _because I’m living with him_ – flat when he realizes he could have hailed a cab. 

But he never takes cabs, does he? Too expensive. Never mind that Charles’ funds could buy a small island. Nate is good, he has to admit that. He has never really noticed how controlling the man is and more importantly, how well he can couch his restrictions in reasons Charles will eat up with a spoon. 

He nods at the doorman out of reflex, takes the elevator up and does not dwell on the threshold of the apartment. He doesn’t look at all the places he can match to injuries, to arguments, to Nate telling him to do something like change his profile picture or not meet the Center volunteers for drinks or pushing him into the kitchen counter, dropping him to his knees, and shoving his cock in Charles’ face because he was angry that Charles ruined one of his shirts in an accident and _why can’t he breathe…_

Charles blinks. He can’t remember when he sank to the floor, yet that is where he is now, shaking like a leaf in the wind and gulping in air while forcing the bile rising up in his throat back down. 

It is like a dam has broken; images, memories, phrases all twirling together in Charles’ mind. _Get a grip_ , he chides himself. _You have to pack and leave_. 

Which is easier said than done since his hands simply don’t stop shaking and he keeps drifting off, consumed by flashes of Nate’s cold smile or angry scowl. By the time he has composed himself enough to throw some clothes and his most important belongings into a small suitcase, the clock shows it is past nine, which spurs him into action. 

He grabs paper and pen, places his suitcase in front of the kitchen counter and starts to scribble a note only to find he has no idea what to say. _I’m leaving you and I won’t come back unless you get help?_

Charles cannot picture Nate talking to anyone, doubts he would ever admit to having done anything wrong. Now that Charles’ head is clearer and the initial shock has worn off, his hopes for reconciliation are dwindling. 

So he leaves the pen where it is, a blatant act of rebellion against Nate’s strict rules of putting things back where they belong. The sight of the blank sheet and Stealth Inc. pen pull a giggle from Charles’ throat, but it borders on hysterical. 

Then a key turns in the lock. 

Charles stops in his tracks as his blood is replaced with liquid ice. _It’s not even ten yet why is he back –_

“Charles?” Nate’s voice sounds far away. “Would you explain to me why there’s a suitcase on the floor?”

It takes every ounce of courage to swallow and clear his throat. “I’m going away.”

“Where?”

“There’s this, uh, sleepover at the Center –”

“Stop lying,” Nate snaps harshly and yes, he has always been able to tell when Charles was lying under pressure. Charles is fine when he has a chance to plan the story, rehearse it in his head, but now he chokes. 

“Where are you going?” Nate’s growl is suddenly a lot closer, prompting Charles to take several startled steps back. 

“I don’t know, a hotel maybe, I haven’t thought that far ahead –”

“And why would you go to a hotel, my dearest?” His tone is mocking and Charles can smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“Why are you back so early?” he deflects, hating how his voice trembles. Nate stands tall before him, shirt and jacket but no tie, his hair less perfect after a day at the office and an evening out at a bar. 

“Shaw got an urgent call and had to leave. Answer my question.”

Charles’ mouth is dry but he forces the words out nevertheless. “I’m leaving you.”

Nate’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“You haven’t – I mean…” Charles takes a deep breath and makes himself meet Nate’s cold stare, squaring his shoulders. “You’re abusive and I’m leaving.”

Nate’s only reaction is bark out a laugh. Charles draws a stuttering breath, steadying himself in an attempt to escape the paralyzing fear compelling him to beg on his knees for Nate to ignore what happened. 

“It has come to my attention that you’re abusive towards me,” he says again, “and I can’t be with you anymore unless you decide to get help.”

For some reason this only serves to make Nate laugh harder. “Help?” he gasps, taking a step closer, prompting Charles to take a step back out of his reach. He still has a few feet left before his back will hit the window and he might make it to the front door before Nate catches up to him. 

“Yes, from professionals.”

It works – this time Nate closes his eyes while laughing and it’s exactly what Charles has been waiting for. He bursts into a sprint, forgoing his bag and aiming right for the front door past the kitchen isle on his right. He is almost there when two hands close around his waist and stop his run and he is swirled around and let go, floundering in an attempt to keep his balance. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Charles,” Nate growls, advancing on him. “You think anyone would want you?”

“I’m better off alone,” he manages through gritted teeth as he walks backwards to the left and into their open living room, only stopping when the large sofa is between them. 

Nate’s lips curl into an ugly grin. “You’re not. You can’t function alone anymore, Charles. You need me. You’re nothing without me.”

And Charles hates how there is a voice in his head that immediately echoes, _I know_. He feels like a dog, trained to do exactly what its master asks of him and it sickens and angers him enough to overcome some of the fear. 

“You’re wrong.”

Nate’s eyes squint, darkening dangerously. “Careful, Charles. I might have to teach you a lesson.”

“I’ve learned enough from you,” he spits back, making a break for the door only to be once again thwarted by strong arms around his torso, their vice-like grip not yielding this time as Nate pulls him back against his chest. 

Panicking, Charles does the only thing he can think of – cry for help, hoping their neighbors are home and call the police again. 

“HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!” is as far as he gets before one arm retreats and connects with his side, punching the air out of his lungs, followed by another on the other side and a shove to his back that sends him to the floor. 

He barely manages to brace himself on his hands before he feels a kick, then another, then another, first to the stomach then to his head. His arms come up reflexively, shielding him until Nate decides this won’t do and one moment later he is on top of Charles, straddling his hips in the least erotic way possible. 

Nate doesn’t take long to slap his hands away, only to fasten his around Charles’ throat. 

“Please –” he gasps when he can, but the plea does nothing but inspire Nate to readjust his grip. 

“Shut up, you slut,” he barks, shifting his weight until pain explodes white and hot from Charles’ neck upwards. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you weren’t so fucking useless!”

Nate goes on, his lips are moving – but Charles cannot make out the words. His vision is blurring around the edges, dimming more and more, and it becomes harder to lift his hands to find purchase somewhere to push or pull Nate off until he has no energy left at all, and darkness descends on him like a wave.

* * *

It takes Erik ten whole minutes to get himself back under control. Charles has yet to leave the building, so Erik positions himself where he can still monitor the entrance though remain unseen by those using it. 

When Charles appears his gait is that of a man in a trance, walking south. Erik remains where he is, though it doesn’t matter. Charles will go home, either to pack or confront Nate. Erik wouldn’t be surprised if Charles chose the latter, too trusting and optimistic for his own good, probably planning on signing Nate up for therapy as Erik is trying to reign in his trembling hands. 

“I swear to God, Erik, if this is another one of your pseudo-emergencies,” Azazel curses when he accepts the call, which only happens after Azazel let three other calls go to voicemail and Erik had to resort to sending him 911 via text message. “I’m skyping with Raven and you know very well we don’t get to do that of- ”

“I need you.”

A beat of silence on the other end. Erik’s voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears. 

“Where are you?”

“Outside the Center.”

The dial tone rings out. Erik waits for Azazel to fetch his weapon, after which he materializes right next to him. 

“What happened?”

“Charles had a little epiphany. We need to watch his flat.”

Where other people might have inquired more or questioned Erik’s judgment, all Azazel does is wrap his fingers around Erik’s wrist and teleport them to the corner of 63rd and Madison. Things like that remind him why he and Azazel work so well together, why Azazel is his only real friend. 

“Is he back yet?”

Erik shakes his head minutely. “I saw him walking off. Might be a while. We need to hide – I have no idea what the stress does to the reach of his telepathy.”

They pass the time in strained silence, broken only by Azazel’s tentative questions until Erik finds himself relating the entire story. Around eight, Erik can feel a familiar watch approaching. He does not even need to signal Azazel – the mutant has learnt to read the way Erik’s body grows tense quite well over the past years. 

They draw closer to the apartment building once Charles is inside and Erik reaches out, stretching his powers until he knows the exact dimensions of the apartment. 

“He’s alone. Feels like he’s packing. Good.”

A cab pulls up shortly after nine, though Erik can’t feel anyone inside except the driver. It’s all the more shocking to see a man exiting the car and walking past the doorman who nods at him absently. 

“I think that was Nate,” Erik growls. The name of Stealth Inc. suddenly makes a whole lot of sense. “ _Mieses Schwein!_ ”

“Erik, calm the fuck down,” Azazel hisses, stopping him from storming off with a firm hand on his shoulder. “You can’t just barge in.”

“The hell I can! _Wenn der Charles auch nur ein Haar krümmt –_ ”

“Erik, talking at me in German won’t make me back you up – ”

He whirls around, throwing off Azazel’s hand. “Then what the hell do you suggest I do?”

“We’ll do this by the book, Erik,” the other man snaps. “You know how difficult it is to persecute abusers so there’s really no need to add sloppy police work on top of that.”

Azazel doesn’t wait for his reaction; instead he walks off towards the doorman, expecting Erik to follow. He does so, his blood rushing in his ears from anger and the strain that controlling his powers is costing him right now. He can feel the elevator reach the eighth floor. He may not be able to sense Nate or any metal on his person, but he can still sense the elevator. He longs to make it fold in on itself, crush the man within, but Azazel is right. Also, he won’t be any use to Charles if he gets thrown into prison for manslaughter. 

After they flash their badges and get in without problem, Erik tells Azazel to zap them upstairs. 

“No can do, мой друг,” he answers with a small shake of his head. “Any half-decent lawyer would get the case thrown out if I use my powers without probable cause.”

Erik wants desperately to argue, to shout, to shove Azazel until he comes to his senses but Erik knows their time is running out so all he does is huff and sprint towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

By the time they reach the eighth floor, his labored breathing is loud in the silent hallway. He can feel only Charles, identified by his watch, which is lying on the ground. Erik stretches his powers, maps out the flat within the split of a second and gasps as realization hits. 

“He’s on the floor, he’s unconscious, _verfluchte Scheiße_ ! Get us inside NOW!” he roars, advancing on Azazel who sidesteps him immediately, rushing towards the door of 8C.

“By the book!” is his explanation for why he knocks on the door. “NYP, open up!”

 _Charles!_ Erik projects as the adrenaline in his system quickly transforms into panic. _Charles, please, cry out, give me a reason to take down that fucking door!_

There is no reply and Erik can still feel Charles lying on the floor, feet angled to the side and his zipper – his zipper is pressed down, there’s someone on top of him, it has to be Nate – the thought registers and with a rattle the door bursts open, blown right out of its hinges. 

“Erik!” Azazel protests but any further complaints seem to die in his throat the instant he sees what Erik sees. 

Nate is a large man, tall and muscular, a stark contrast to the pale and motionless figure of Charles beneath him. His lips are blue and all Erik sees is red. He might not be able to manipulate metal on Nate’s person but he has his bracelet, which he shapes into a collar and sends flying towards the man. It catches him with enough momentum that is pushes him off Charles – Charles, who does not gasp, who remains still on the ground. 

“Book him, Azazel,” Erik snarls over his shoulder and crosses the short distance between the door and where Charles is lying. He falls to his knees and holds a hand against Charles’ nose and mouth. 

Warm breath hits his skin. It is faint but there, and in that moment Erik wants to cry from relief. 

He takes in the damage as he retrieves his phone and dials 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergen- ” is as far the female operator comes before Erik cuts her off. 

“Detective-specialist Erik Lehnsherr,” he barks at her, rattles off his badge number and the address of Charles’ apartment. “Interrupted a 10-22 with mutant 10-12, send backup and an ambulance.”

To her credit, all the officer on the other end does is ask about the harmed person after confirming that backup and an ambulance are three minutes out. 

Erik describes the wounds he sees, the split lip and already forming bruises covering Charles’ face like a canvas, makes a point of the strangulation he witnessed, and hisses out when he lifts Charles’ shirt without moving him for fear of other injuries. “Possibility of fractured ribs,” Erik concludes, only now noticing that his hand is trembling. 

He cups Charles’ cheek as gently as he can but his reverie is interrupted by vulgar cursing from his right. 

“I’ll have your badges, you fucking bastards!” Nate shouts, by now on the floor with Azazel’s knee pressing him down and handcuffs around his wrists. Erik barely resists the urge to tighten them, cut skin, maybe even sever the hands completely. “You had no right to enter! NO RIGHT! I know people, you fuckers! I’m well connected! I’ll drag your asses in front of the disciplinary committee before you’re able to zap out of this country!”

“Yeah, who do you know?” Erik asks, smirking from where he is still crouched next to Charles’ motionless form. 

“I just had drinks with the commissioner tonight, you dumb schmuck,” Nate spits out and Erik laughs in his face because obviously Sebastian is going to side with some rich businessman over his adoptive son. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, for just then their backup arrives, four officers with their guns drawn, followed by two EMTs. Erik can see Azazel handing a still-shouting Nate over to their colleagues out of the corner of his eye while he tells the medics all he can remember about Charles’ medical history. A light allergy against peanuts, nothing more; an intolerance of penicillin, and suspected ongoing domestic abuse. 

“His partner was choking him when we entered,” Erik stresses. “He’s a professor, he needs his voice –“

“We’re doing everything we can, detective,” the woman tells him firmly. “Stand back, please.”

Erik can’t accompany him, he knows that in theory, but it still causes his chest to tighten as he watches the paramedics roll Charles out of the flat. He rushes through the following procedure, really nothing more than bureaucratic hoops for them to jump through, and is glad to find Azazel already waiting for him outside the station. 

“Do you know – ?” Erik has barley started sounding out his question when Azazel just nods and teleports them to the front doors of the emergency room of what Erik recognizes as Lenox Hill hospital. 

Erik has a reputation. He is known to be abrasive, sometimes outright rude, but he just cannot suffer incompetence and a lot of people fall into that category by his standards. He has perfected a glare that, according to Azazel, will slay puppies and make rainbows evaporate. Erik has never really believed him until he is staring down a nurse at the front desk and watches the older, certainly much respected woman gradually loose her nerve. 

“As an officer –” she starts, only to have Erik correct her with a barked out “Detective” and making her flinch slightly. It barely gives her pause but the moment of hesitation is there. “As a detective,” she continues, “you know perfectly well that I can’t tell you anything about Mr. Xavier even if you were the officer on scene. Only next of kin –”

“What if I got his sister on the line?” Erik suggests, baring his teeth. 

The nurse raises a dubious eyebrow, yet Azazel is already tapping away on his phone. Erik thanks whoever is handing out happy coincidences in this universe when Raven picks up immediately. It’s a video call, showing her in all her blue-skinned glory. Her red hair is sleep-mussed and she is blinking blearily at the screen. 

Azazel explains the situation – to Erik’s surprise, there are no tears and no shrieking when Raven learns of what happened, only growling fury and rather colorful curses directed at Nate - and hands Raven over to the nurse. By the time the call ends, the woman is highly cooperative and Erik gets Charles room number. 

“Go ahead,” Azazel tells him. “Raven’s going to call me back any minute now, she wanted to ask about time off. I’ll probably go get her.”

“Where is she?”

“Darfur.” 

Erik just nods. He knows Azazel can basically overcome any distance, but such long trips harbor some risk and besides, he is “not your way around airport taxes”, or so Azazel swears. It is a testament to how much he must like Raven that he does not even put up a token-protest. 

This means Erik is alone when he gingerly opens the door to room 1-20, suddenly nervous as to what lies behind it. He takes several seconds to simply look at Charles, lying on the bed in a hospital gown with band-aids covering his wounds and a heart monitor bleeping into the silence. 

“Good evening.”

The voice startles Erik, though before he can assume a defensive stance the speaker (late thirties, white coat, no threat at all) comes into view on his right, stepping closer to the bed and taking up the chart at its foot. 

Right, the nurse said she would send a doctor to explain the situation, he remembers now. Erik forces his thoughts to slow down enough that he can take in what the man is saying, words like CT, kidney rupture, broken ribs or morphine. 

Erik sinks into the chair next to Charles once the doctor has left and suddenly has no idea what to do. He has the strange urge to take Charles’ hand, make sure the man is still there, that the monitor isn’t lying when showing his pulse. But touch amplifies the telepathic connection and Erik does not want Charles to hear any of his thoughts at the moment, things like _mieses Schwein, gonna rip him apart, Charles damn you wake up, get better_ and _we still have a chess game to finish_.

He wonders what will happen, both to Charles and to them. Maybe Charles will press charges, or at least Erik hopes he will. If not, he might have to visit Erik in prison after all. And what about them? Will they keep meeting? Will Charles still want to see him? Or will he want to stay alone for a bit, without the threat of romance on the horizon? 

Before Erik can contemplate the possible answers and adjust his potential plans accordingly, the beeps quicken and when Erik glances at Charles’ face, familiar blue eyes are looking back at him. 

“Hello, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it’s a bit of a cliffhanger! But salvation is only 24 hours away, coming in the form of a 7,000 word long last chapter :)
> 
> Translations:  
> mieses Schwein = fucking/mean pig  
> Wenn der Charles auch nur ein Haar krümmt = if he harms but one hair on Charles’ head [though it sounds more menacing in German]  
> verfluchte Scheiße = fucking shit  
> мой друг = my friend
> 
> 10-22 = assault  
> 10-12 = police officer holding suspect  
> Sources: [list of codes](http://www.911dispatch.com/info/tencode_nypd.html), [on entering a home](http://www.nycpolicemisconductlawyers.com/when-can-nypd-enter-your-home-without-a-warrant.html)


	7. A New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my MD sister for medical advice to ensure my med talk is accurate! And another shout-out to Sierra, who was kind enough to beta this for me :)  
> Details on police procedure are mostly based on my imagination, as well as on [this site](http://www.joneshacker.com/practice-areas/criminal-defense-lawyers/felony-criminal-defense-lawyers). 
> 
> Now, without further ado, while nervously awaiting judgement, I present the last chapter...

“Hello, my friend.”

Charles’ voice is like sandpaper, raw and grating, chasing Erik out of his seat and towards the bedside table for the glass of water placed there by a nurse, which he hands to Charles wordlessly. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, apparently trying not to strain his vocal cords too much. 

Silence envelops them. Erik has no clue how to explain what happened, or whether or not telling Charles about his injuries is a good idea in the first place – 

“I’d like to know,” Charles rasps from the bed, causing Erik’s eyes to find his again. “What happened, I mean.”

Erik grimaces. He didn’t mean to project his indecision –

“You’re not,” the other man interrupts. “I’m sorry, but whatever they have me on is making it extremely hard for me to shield my mind.”

“It’s fine,” Erik says immediately. “You have a right to know.”

Charles nods slowly. “So I have three broken ribs, a ruptured kidney, low blood oxygen but no concussion?”

“And as far as they’re able to tell also no residual damage from the strangulation,” Erik adds, immediately feeling bad about the way his anger at Nate still colors his tone enough to make Charles flinch. 

“No, it’s not your fault, my friend,” Charles rushes to say. “It’s just – until a few hours ago, I didn’t have an… an abusive partner.” Calling it by name seems to have cost him the last of his self-control for the next moment, Charles’ eyes are filling with tears which he tries to blink away furiously. 

Erik rummages through the bedside table to mask his unease. He is not very good at dealing with crying people, though producing a tissue which Charles accepts gratefully to dry his cheeks and blow his nose seemed to be the right course of action. The room lapses into a brief silence once more, giving Erik enough time to strengthen his shields. Not because he fears for his privacy but because he does not want to overwhelm Charles, who eventually asks in a small voice, gesturing with the hand not perforated by an IV line, “What happened? Before all this?” 

“What do you remember?”

The other man swallows hard, hesitant. “Nate came home, he was way too early. I tried to lie, but I never could, not under pressure… He,” Charles clears his throat. “He hit me.”

“He almost killed you,” Erik corrects since it’s an important difference. Charles still seems to be making excuses, even after that schmuck landed him in the hospital. 

“But you saved me. You followed me.” There is no accusation in Charles’ words, only gratitude. 

“I also might have destroyed your door.” Erik averts his eyes, feeling his cheeks color slightly. “I’ll replace it.”

Then, Charles’ face does something complicated, going through a myriad of emotions before Erik has time to decipher them, and his voice is subdued when he asks, “What about, uh, Nate?” 

Erik’s hands ball into fists without consciously allowing them to do so. “He’s in custody. But last I heard, he might make bail. He’ll need the weekend to gather the money, fortunately.”

Charles laughs humorlessly in response. “He knows the commissioner, he won’t stay in there for long.”

“I know the commissioner, too,” Erik admits, earning himself a curious look. “He’s my father.”

“Sebastian Shaw?” It is hard to say whether Charles’ surprise is negative or positive. If Erik recalls correctly, Charles has never been that big a fan of Shaw, even though he admires some of the policies the man has implemented. 

“Adoptive father,” Erik clarifies, and watches a strange flash of understanding pass over Charles’ face. 

“Of course,” he says, “you make much more sense now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Charles merely smiles at him tiredly. “I’ll have to explain another time, alright?”

Erik nods. “You’re right, though – Nate will walk, unless…”

“Unless I press charges,” Charles finishes the thought for him. 

“It’s your choice,” Erik forces himself to say, since it’s true, even though he hates to admit it, even though he’d love nothing more than drag Charles to the court himself and then throw away the key to Nate’s cell. 

Charles pauses for a long moment, eyes growing distant. He seems to be going through his options, calculating possible outcomes, maybe even wrestling internally with the love he might still be feeling towards Nate. 

Eventually, he settles on, “I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m tired.”

Erik is out of his chair before Charles can take another breath. “Sleep – I’ll go. I’ll be back later. Raven, too.”

This time the surprise that takes over Charles’ expression is obviously positive. “Raven? How – wait. Azazel?”

“Yes.”

Charles sighs, settling more into the large hospital-issued cushion. “Sleep well, my friend.”

Erik only nods. He has crossed the space between the bed and the door and is already gripping the handle before Charles calls his name. 

“Erik?”

He turns, not at all prepared for the open look he is met with. Charles’ eyes seem to be swimming with emotion and his voice cracks when he speaks again. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

It’s close to six o’clock in the morning when Erik gets home, so he heads straight for the shower and prepares for work, where he is immediately sent down the FDR to the Civic Center in south Manhattan where the NYPD offices are located. 

He is to meet with the commissioner as soon as possible and Shaw hates to be kept waiting, even (or maybe especially) when it comes to Erik. 

“Nate Dawson was a good asset to have, Erik,” Sebastian tells him once he closed the office door with his powers and took a seat in front of Shaw’s desk. “He has influential contacts, political capital, old money…”

“I apologize if me upholding the law and fulfilling my duty interferes with your politicking,” Erik shoots back dryly. 

Yet Shaw only waves him off. “Everyone’s replaceable. Dawson was but one of my many friends. I know the vice CEO of Stealth Solutions, so this won’t jeopardize the MTU’s equipment at all. Pity that he was such a public figure, though. He’s already making noise, something about _lack of probable cause_ and _excessive use of force_ …?”

Erik clenches his jaw but remains silent. Sebastian’s gaze turns incrementally softer, as does his voice when he continues. “I didn’t know you had a thing for professors, Erik.”

“It’s not about that,” he snaps, though that alone has probably already proven Sebastian’s point. “I had a suspicion and followed it, which was a good thing because if I hadn’t intervened Dawson would be facing murder charges.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact that you used your powers to open a door without probable cause. I read your report, Erik – you know how skeptical the committees are about intel gathered through our powers. It’s disgusting, I know; but it’s the reality.”

“So what?” Erik wonders. “So I used excessive force, but it got the job done and it saved Charles’ life, _verdammt nochmal_!”

“ _Beruhige dich_ , Erik,” Shaw placates him. “I’m at your side here. This incident just proves what we already know: that we’re better than humans. A human officer would never have entered that room because they wouldn’t have had the slightest _hunch_ anything was wrong. But there’s going to be an investigation and they might want to take your badge. No need to worry, though – I protect my own.”

Erik releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was ninety-nine percent sure Sebastian would back him up, yet the man has proven to be unpredictable sometimes, especially when his job might be called into question. He did not stand up for Erik and Azazel last time, after all, which got them this demotion in the first place. 

“What about Azazel?” 

Sebastian shrugs. “I’m afraid you’re both in the same boat. I’ll do what I can, but they’ll probably at least extend your suspension from the MTU.”

“Great.” 

Shaw rises then, his lips curling into a smirk suddenly. “Look on the bright side, my son,” he announces, patting Erik’s shoulder with one hand, “your hours are going to be more predictable, so you get to spend all the time with your little professor as you want.”

Erik grumbles a protest, though Sebastian is already shooing him out of his office with strict orders to follow the rulebook for the next few days until the disciplinary committee has taken over his case. 

If they actually extend his time as an ordinary officer, Erik thinks darkly, he’ll definitely die of boredom before Charles even gets out of the hospital.

* * *

Charles comes to in increments when the first rays of sunshine illuminate his room. For a moment he is confused by the strange mattress and even stranger sheets until what happened comes back to him in a flash. He shoots up immediately – only to fall back against the bed with a groan as the movement reminds him of his myriad of injuries. 

“Now’d be the time to play with that little drip next to your bed,” a voice comes from his left and Charles almost whips around before forcing himself to calm down and turn his head slowly. 

He knows the voice, has known it for the major part of his life, he just did not expect the man to be the second person at his side. 

“Morning, Tony.”

The young Stark has taken over the visitor chair, StarkPad forgotten in his lap. Charles knows better than to ask how he got in here. A man who build an iron suit out of scrap metal in a desert and keeps the company of Gods and Superhumans will have no trouble breaking into a hospital. 

“Hey there, Professor X,” Tony greets him in a tone that has been forced into flippancy. “Not looking too good there.”

Charles shrugs before thinking it through, then shifts until he can reach the morphine drip and give himself another dose. 

Usually, Tony Stark is a force of nature, never sitting still for longer than two minutes, not even when he is coding. In company, Tony is always talking, especially with Charles who was one of the few people capable of keeping up with the young prodigy. To see the same man glued to the edge of his chair, knuckles white from gripping his tablet too hard, is an eerie sight. 

“Why are you here, Tony?” Charles asks when he cannot take the silence any longer. 

The other man exhales, not saying a word. Curious, Charles stretches his mind to graze the surface of Tony’s, only to jerk back when he is hit with a wall of guilt.

It must have shown on his face, for Tony finally finds the courage to speak, licking his lips before he begins. “I came to apologize. I don’t do it often because most of the time I’m not sorry and the other one was wrong anyway, but this time I really screwed up.”

“Why?” Charles asks immediately, genuinely at a loss as to the source of Tony’s turmoil. 

Tony gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I introduced you, didn’t I? Thought I was brilliant at the time; the man no tech can locate and the strongest telepath this side of the ocean. JARVIS has you two on file as my greatest matchmaking success…” He runs a hand through his hair, not meeting Charles’ eyes. “Shit, I gotta delete that. Right after I upgrade your care here, the security’s awful, anyone could walk in, like, you know, certain violent parties that shall go unnamed ‘cos I don’t know how traumatized you are yet -”

“Tony, you’re being daft,” Charles eventually manages to interrupt, pressing on even though his throat is dry and hurting. “I flirted with him. I slept with him. I moved in with him. I was blind, not you.”

“I’ve been a shitty friend,” Tony argues back, jumping up from his chair and throwing the tablet carelessly behind him where it lands on the seat. 

“We’ve both been busy –” 

“Yeah, but you’re the one who called and I’m the one who’s been too busy fighting aliens and playing full house with a bunch of people who’ve got more issues than National Geographic. If I hadn’t been so careless, maybe I’d have noticed something.”

“Even I didn’t see it for what it was,” Charles admits, averting his eyes. “I doubt you’d have connected the dots, Tony. I don’t blame you, for none of it, so please stop feeling so guilty.”

He seems to turn that over in his head, as if determining whether or not to accept Charles’ forgiveness. Charles knows better, though – Tony is used to blame being placed on him, mostly because a lot of his actions do cause some sort of harm. Tony just fails to see how much more good he does, and how many people in his life love him no matter how many times he accidentally blows up his lab. 

“I’m serious,” Charles repeats. “This is not on you. It’s on Nate, and it’s on me.”

It takes a few moments, but in the end Tony nods tentatively. Charles can feel he is not completely there yet, though in time Tony will accept he was not at fault. 

Tony coughs, the awkward gesture so at odds with the public image of the confident Iron Man that it makes Charles smile. “You should go before anyone catches you. How are you even here so early? They haven’t even done rounds yet.”

Just like that, the patented Tony Stark grin that sends shareholders running for their banks is back full force. 

“I was in Singapore when JARVIS told me some officer was requesting back-up to come to your apartment. Took me a few hours to get there, so obviously I was too late to do anything, but by that time the police reports were in the database, so…” Tony trails off, as if having constant access to all NYPD files is nothing noteworthy. “Suit’s on the roof; couldn’t risk flying to your window, even though it’d’ve been poetic, right?”

“You’re a menace,” Charles teases, and Tony takes a bow with overly enthusiastic flourish. “Go back to saving the world. I’m fine.”

Tony’s face falls at that. “You’re not, though.”

“But I… I think I will be.”

Charles believes it, too, and it apparently carries in his voice for Tony seems satisfied enough to actually leave, yet not before promising Charles a room upgrade, bodyguards at the door, a lawyer to come by on Monday and another visit. 

“Don’t believe for a second I missed that this one officer was there the second something happened, Charles! I know there’s a story behind that!”

“Which I’ll tell you when I’m less high on pain medication,” Charles promises, earning himself a smirk from his friend, who raises a finger at him. 

“I’ll hold you to that!”

* * *

Early morning visiting geniuses aside, Charles hates hospitals. Well, he assumes that there are very few people who would say they actually liked hospitals, except maybe doctors and nurses as long as they don’t cross the line between caretaker and patient. 

It’s just that Charles loves keeping busy and having to deal with seven days of strict bed rest seems like pure torture. 

“Oh, you’re welcome to walk further than the bathroom, Mr. Xavier,” said Mrs. Gladys, Charles’ personal nurse from hell, on his first full day under her care. “If you want to re-rupture your kidney, please do. I mean, we would love to take it out if you’re hell bent on walking or moving around, really. Or alternatively we could let you bleed out, how about that?”

So Charles grudgingly accepted the fact that he is now chained to the bed for the week. Apparently, a ruptured kidney will do that to you. He also receives daily ultrasounds after an initial whole-body CT not only to check on the small hematoma but also to see if he is hurt anywhere else. At the end of the week they are going to do another CT scan to make sure everything is healing well, but until then he is not to move more than absolutely necessary. Plus, his ribs are broken, so the doctors are worried about the bone puncturing the lungs. At least his throat is fine, if a little sore. There is not even any bruising, for which Charles is incredibly grateful. 

All in all, Charles is in hellish pain, helped only by the very nice morphine drip they gave him, and mostly bored out of his mind. 

“Well, you’re not lacking in books,” Erik comments when he visits Saturday morning. He had come by the day before, yet given that he was not so much dropping by as dead on his feet from an exhausting night, Charles sent him home rather quickly. It’s very nice to have him back, though, he has to admit. 

“I can’t read more than two hours at a time right now,” he complains, “and Raven had to go back to work today; they’re at a sensitive point at her mission, so she cannot entertain me for the rest of the week, and you have to go to work.”

“We’ll see for how long.” 

Erik’s tone is clipped, giving Charles pause. “What do you mean?”

The detective squirms in his visitor chair, and Charles would be able to tell the line of conversation is making him uncomfortable even if Erik didn’t project the emotion all over the place. 

“There’ll be a hearing on Thursday,” Erik says vaguely. “Nate’s lawyer has already filed a complaint against Azazel and me, and the disciplinary committee is going to determine whether we can keep our badges. We’re suspended until then.”

“What?! But you did nothing wrong!” Charles protests immediately, regretting it the instant his voice cracks. It does sound rather pathetic, yet instead of laughing Erik’s mood shifts and his unease is replaced by the same strum of anger Charles managed to pick up from him Friday morning. 

Erik explains at length about how him breaking the door down without probable cause constitutes unprofessional conduct, deflecting every argument Charles raises until even his usual optimism has been dimmed. 

“If I can do anything –” he begins, only for Erik to cut him off. 

“No, it won’t matter. It’ll be fine. Shaw won’t let them fire me, Charles. I’m too valuable for the MTU.” Erik sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “The press isn’t helping, either.”

Charles’ shoulders slump. “Sorry about that.”

“Not your fault that Nate’s lawyers or whichever _Dummkopf_ leaked the story.”

“No, it’s, uh,” Charles pauses, looking for words. “It _is_ my fault. I know you acted out of your own free will, but if I hadn’t been so blind for the past three and a half years, none of this would’ve happened.”

Erik merely raises an eyebrow and he is thinking loud enough for Charles to hear. _Stop being an idiot, Charles._ Then there are flashes of websites, articles, all the research Erik has done on domestic abuse and on why partners stay despite everything. 

He could argue, Charles is sure, but he is tired and his brain won’t supply any arguments, so he simply gives a half-shrug, half-nod. Erik lets it go, turning instead to the mountain of books that Hank has brought Charles. 

Erik reaches out but his hand freezes two-thirds of the way to the first book on the pile, his eyes darting to Charles. 

“I could, you know. Read.”

“To me?” Charles asks, smiling when Erik nods cautiously. “I’d like that. I like your voice.”

The compliment seems to catch the other man off guard, for Erik’s eyes grow wide and his face reddens. They hold each other’s gaze for another long, drawn-out moment, and it stretches between them. The air appears thicker to Charles when he takes a deep breath. He catches a sliver of strong affection before Erik’s shields fall into place, yet the one hint is enough to make Charles’ heart beat faster. He is infinitely glad that the heart monitor has been removed. 

Belatedly, Erik clears his throat, leaning forward to pick up the novel on top of the nightstand. 

“This one alright?”

He holds it up, a supernatural crime novel, and Charles nods, settling into the bed and allowing himself to enjoy the moment, even though there are a few alarm bells going off in his head.

* * *

By Sunday, these bells have melted into something heavy that settles on Charles’ shoulders. 

He knows exactly what it is, which does not make solving it any easier. 

Part of it, he is sure, is the question of what to do about Nate that is looming over him like a storm cloud. Charles deflects when Erik (and Raven) asks on Satuday, saying he has postponed the decision to Monday when the lawyer Tony called shows up. 

It’s no lie, not really – in his head Charles knows what would be the sensible thing to do: testify against Nate, make sure he serves time, prevent the same thing from happening again. The only problem is the immense panic rising up in his chest when he imagines seeing Nate in a courtroom, or the way he breaks into cold sweats whenever remembering a new instance he brushed under a mental rug and did not label as what it was, or the nightmares. Oh gosh, the nightmares… 

With a Ph.D. in child psychology, Charles is no stranger to PTSD. Living it, however, is worlds away from seeing and understanding it in others. 

And then there is the even bigger elephant in the room: Erik. 

They have chemistry, no one can deny that. Hank has been teasing him over the past few weeks, and even Raven raised an eyebrow when Charles mentioned his name in casual conversation on the phone, only to blush furiously afterwards for no one but himself to see. 

And it isn’t that Charles doesn’t like Erik, it’s just… he has no idea what kind of person he is, anymore. He molded his life around Nate’s, adjusted to his moods and wishes, because he was in love and thought it to be the best course of action. Throwing himself into a new relationship right away, with his kind of baggage? 

Whatever future he and Erik could have would crash and burn before they even started dating. 

Which is what he intends to tell Erik on Sunday after the man comes by with a travel chess set that makes Charles break into a grin and decide to play chicken for a while longer.

Two matches later – both of which Erik wins – Charles is exhausted since his body is tiring easily right now. Erik puts the chess set away without comment and picks up “Storm Front” again, reading it out loud for Charles whose heart is beating in his throat.

It only takes half a page for Erik to notice, and Charles thinks he must be projecting a great deal, because there is no confusion in Erik’s eyes. Instead, Charles sees his own feelings mirrored back at him, hidden in the softness of Erik’s features, the absence of the tension he has been carrying for the past two days, and the openness Erik has only ever shown to him.

 _This is it_ , he realizes. _This is the moment._

Charles draws a deep breath that somehow fails to be calming but manages to make Erik nervous. He remains silent, however, waiting for Charles to speak, a touch of tension creeping back into his shoulders. 

“Erik, I…” He rehearsed this in his mind; it should not be this hard, really… “I cannot give you what you want, or what I think you want,” he begins, his voice trembling but not from his injuries, while his eyes are watching his own fingers play with the seam of the sheets. “But I’d hate to lose having you in my life. I want you to stay around, Erik, come to the Center, play chess with me or discuss politics because I,” another breath and he finally lifts his eyes to meet Erik’s, “I like you, I genuinely do. But the only place in my life I can offer you right now is that of a friend.”

* * *

Erik breathes out slowly. He isn’t surprised. He might have imagined Charles agreeing to go out with him right away in a few of his wilder day dreams, yet deep inside he has always known how far-fetched that thought was. 

That Charles wants him there at all is, no, _has to be_ enough. His life is better with Charles in it, no matter in which capacity, and Erik will do his best not to screw it up. 

“Yes,” he says, hoping it will express all that he means. 

Which it doesn’t, judging by the quizzical look on Charles’ face. “I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify that.”

“I…” 

Erik and words, not the most effective combination. This is why Azazel talks to kidnappers and Erik dismantles their guns and turns their own watches into handcuffs. 

Charles, fortunately, waits patiently, looking at him with beautiful blue eyes. 

“You’re right,” Erik finally manages, aiming for honesty. “About what I want. But it’s not about what I want, it’s about what you need. If you need me to leave you alone, I’ll do it. If you need me to be a friend and nothing more, I’ll gladly do that as well.” He swallows, gathering all the courage he can muster for the last sentence. “But I need to know if you’re saying _no_ , or _not yet_.”

“Not yet,” Charles blurts immediately, his ears coloring as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “I’m saying _not yet_.”

Erik stares, blinking dazedly at him. Then Charles smiles, a heart-felt, broad smile that lights up his entire face and makes Erik’s throat go dry, and he decides that not yet have just become his two favorite words in the whole wide world.

* * *

_Not yet_ does not put a stop to their dynamic – it is more like a comma, a pause after which the sense of their sentence changes. 

At least that is how Charles thinks about it during the following days, a strange sense of elated contentment settling in his chest that he remembers from the initial stages of Nate and his relationship. Raven once called it honeymoon phase, which Charles thinks is ridiculous but also somehow apt.

Not for Erik and him, though, since they are not dating. The fact makes it easier for Charles to breathe, allows him to enjoy the time with Erik without having to worry about when the other shoe is going to drop. Erik is a man of his word; Charles would know that even if he were not able to look into his mind. 

The rest of his hospital stay passes a lot quicker than the first weekend. Monday morning Charles spends two hours with the lawyer, a young, energetic Stanford graduate called Sam Wesson who manages to straddle the line between nice and scarily competent in a way Charles has only ever seen on TV. Where Tony found that one, he has no idea. 

“Charges have been filed and the prosecutor really wants you to testify,” Wesson explains, “but I’m here to make sure your interests are protected. Your testimony would help the case immensely, though given that Mr. Lehnsherr has already agreed to appear before the court, they would have quite a case without you as well.”

Erik mentioned the lawyer contacting him, so Charles just nods. 

“They would like a definite answer within the week, Mr. Xavier, so there is some pressure but you can take all the time you need until then.”

Yet Charles has had time, too much time actually, during the hours neither Erik nor Raven were there on Sunday. The articles he saw in Erik’s mind have struck a chord with him, but they were not the only things that influenced his decision. He needs to do this for himself, he realized this morning; he needs to fight back. He feels close to powerless, lying in bed all day and relying on pain medication to stop himself from screaming whenever he moves and aggravates his ribs. 

“I’ll testify,” Charles tells Wesson decisively. “I’ll appear in court.”

The lawyer smiles, no surprise visible anywhere in his mind, and dives into a long explanation about what happens next. 

Erik’s joy is more intense, tinged with a sense of pride that almost overwhelms Charles when he catches a hint of it. Warmth spreads through his chest, soaking up the praise radiating from the other man, given freely without any caveats. 

Over the next few days, Erik seems torn between happiness and anxiety, the latter mounting the closer the day of his disciplinary hearing comes. An equally anxious Azazel visits with him on Wednesday, bearing tea. 

“Thank god!” Charles practically shouts. “The stuff here is dreadful!” Then he sees the brand and his grin widens. “That’s from that little shop in Oxford!”

“Erik told me,” Azazel says, his expression incredibly smug. “Thought I’d make a quick trip to Europe before coming here.”

“Want me to make you a cup?” Erik suggests and Charles is nodding before he has even finished his question. 

They have a great afternoon, Charles drinking tea and listening to Azazel telling stories about Erik that are sometimes embarrassing, other times barking mad. 

“You rose a submarine from the sea?” Charles gasps, just to express how impressed he is. The event has been kept out of the press, but Charles has caught glimpses of it through Azazel’s mind so he knows the teleporter is telling the truth. 

Erik’s jaw is tight when he nods, clearly wishing they were talking about something else, but his partner barges on, going into great detail to describe how Erik single-handedly saved commissioner Shaw from human extremists who thought nuclear powers a good idea to kill the mutant who absorbs energy of every kind. 

“So that’s the reason behind your demotion?” Charles ventures a guess. “You went against explicit orders and saved hundreds of lives in the process?”

“The saving of lives is the reason we still got out badges,” Azazel says flippantly, though Charles can tell he is incredibly grateful to have kept his job. “The mayor wanted us gone, no kidding.”

“We did destroy a large part of Key West,” Erik grants, though the other mutant protests immediately. 

“You did that! I just played airlift – the Overseas Highway is all on you!”

“ _Ja, klar, das sagt er jetzt…_ ”

“Grumbling into your nonexistent beard won’t help your case, Lehnsherr –”

“Whose idea was it to go snooping? I was perfectly content with accepting the inconsistencies.”

“I can see I opened old wounds,” Charles remarks dryly, trying to keep a straight face. But both Erik and Azazel are more fond than exasperated, and there is no real venom in their voices. “Yet just in case the NYPD decides to let you go after all – which I highly doubt, mind you – I’d love to offer you a position at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters next year.”

Azazel whistles and raises a black eyebrow. “Fancy name. You’ve been working from the hospital bed?”

Charles shakes his head. “Hank’s been shouldering most of it, bless him. But as of this morning, we have an official name.”

Azazel cheers, then turns the conversation onto Raven for the next thirty minutes, while Erik is telegraphing a blur of pride, respect and caring that has Charles short for breath at times. Thankfully, Azazel is good at filling silences, which might also be a characteristic that makes him click with Erik like he does.

Their nervousness returns once they bid him goodbye and Charles is left sharing their anxiety all through the following day. The morning drags past him, the tests taking longer than usual, the hours longer without Erik to chase them off, until the door to his room opens shortly after two, revealing two smiling mutants. Well, Azazel is grinning; Erik just looks less tense than usual. Charles dips into their minds, gathering tidbits of information before he realizes what he is doing. 

He curses the brief flash of panic, residual reflexes from years of Nate telling him others will hate him touching their thoughts. According to the hospital-provided therapist, it is going to take a lot longer than a few days for these reactions to go away, but Charles has a hard time accepting his behavior. 

“You’ll need to look elsewhere for teachers,” Azazel announces, “because we’ll keep our badges!”

Erik sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But in exchange they added another three months to our demotion.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just grumpy because Shaw couldn’t get it down to two,” Azazel mock-whispers, eliciting a laugh from Charles. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two alone, I just came to share the good news. And to tell you,” he adds, looking at Charles, “that I’m picking up Raven again tomorrow morning; she called to tell that she’s going to be there when you get out of here. Her mission’s over and she took a couple of weeks personal leave.”

Which is the best thing that could have happened to Charles, really. Wesson has filed a restraining order against Nate, who made bail on Monday, so he cannot officially do anything, even in the unlikely case he got past his Tony-provided bodyguards. 

However, Charles has no idea what to do now. Hank convinced him to move into one of the emergency rooms at the Center until he finds a place of his own, but having Raven there will at least ease the transition. 

Erik is there on Saturday afternoon when the hospital lets Charles go, pushing the wheelchair down the hall towards the sliding doors of the building with his powers, and he helps carry some of the bags Raven fetched from Charles’ former flat.

They invite Erik to stay for dinner, sharing curry and saffron rice in the staff room at the Center until Raven excuses herself to go for drinks with Azazel and Erik and Charles move to his office where the chess set is standing frozen mid-match. 

“Let’s start a new one,” Charles decides, glad when Erik doesn’t question his sudden change of heart, since he has been mentioning the unfinished chess game for days now. 

Erik rearranges the pieces with a smile, small but genuine, which Charles carries with him into his bare, impersonal room that night. For the first time the whole situation does not feel like the end of life as Charles knows it, but as the beginning of something else entirely. 

Something more beautiful. 

Charles sleeps through the night for the first time since the incident.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Once again, Charles takes a few steps back to gauge the difference. He can tell Erik is a tad annoyed by his insistence on inspecting every room of the manor one last time before calling it a night, but tomorrow is the first day of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters and everything simply has to be perfect. 

“Charles, can I let go of the whiteboard now?” Erik asks from the front of the classroom, waving his elbows while his hands are directed at the large item, holding it in place. 

“Yes, wonderful! It looks a lot better, thank you,” Charles says, already on his way out of the room and down the hallway and the stairs into the entrance hall. 

The light connection with Erik’s mind he maintains whenever they are together tells him that the other man is following reluctantly. He is probably frustrated from – Charles checks his watch – nine hours of making sure everything is fine. He volunteered his help, though, so Charles doesn’t feel too bad about it. 

It is March 10th, the eve before high school students in New York return to their classes for the second half of the school year, only this year there will be a mutant-only school commencing lessons as well. Fifty-two students from the entire State will participate in the pilot project, ages six to sixteen, and hopefully parents and politicians alike will see how much better Charles’ model is. 

Reaching this point cost a lot, but following the breakup Charles threw himself into the work with all his being. He went to therapy, he found a new flat on the East Side, he testified against Nate which was by far the most terrifying experience in his life and without Erik’s help and him calming him down from various panic attacks, Charles would never have made it. 

It was worth it – Nate was convicted of a class C violent felony and is going to spend the next eight years in prison, to extensive media coverage. 

That is the past, however, and Charles has been making progress over the last eight months. He still argues with Erik about politics, still loses at chess, still has a great time with the children at the Center, but nowadays he is a lot more social, going out to meet friends for drinks spontaneously whenever he wishes. He also attended three conferences in the last five months alone and he has also become prone to arrogance, though Erik usually remarks that “Arrogance has to be earned, Charles, and you earned it,” which appeases him somewhat. 

Needless to say, Erik has become a fixture in his life, almost as omnipresent like his telepathy. Erik has a few clothes at Charles’ apartment for when he falls asleep on the sofa after he comes back from a grueling mission (after he was put back on the MTU rooster in January, that is). And Erik has been by his side constantly this past week, even taking some time off work to be able to help prepare the Westchester mansion for the coming onslaught of students. 

“Anything else?” 

Erik’s voice stops Charles’ reminiscing, prompting him to turn around to the dark cloud that is the other man (at least mentally). 

“Well, I know we were _officially_ done with the table in the teachers’ lounge, but I finally know just how to place it for optimum space utilization –”

“The teachers’ lounge? You’ve got to be kidding– I already moved it three times, Charles!”

“It was twice, and I know –”

“- that this one’s going to be the last time?”

“Yes!”

“You’re sure? Because you said the same thing two hours ago when I shifted it two feet to the left.”

“I’m sorry if this annoys you, Erik, but –”

“- but you’re nervous and this is how you deal with it, yes, I got that five hours ago.”

“ _But_ everything’s got to be perfect,” Charles insists. “So please, just one more trip to the teachers’ lounge, Erik.”

Erik glares, drawing a deep breath. Charles can feel how he forces his mind to calm down, squaring his shoulders and nodding at him to lead the way, out of politeness rather than necessity since Erik had the building mapped out before they even set foot into the entrance hall for the first time. 

They move the table, or rather Erik does while Charles is watching and biting his lip. 

“Like this?” Erik clarifies, sighing in relief as Charles nods. 

He is almost through the door when he changes his mind (yes, he knows, but first impressions are important!) and turns, saying, “No, wait –”

Erik groans, a flash of anger taking over his mind as he balls his hands into fist, taking a step towards him. “No, Charles, forget it! I’m done for today. Sleep on it, _verdammt nochmal_ , but I’m _not_ going to be moving any other furniture, _klar_?”

Charles blinks. Freezes in place when what just happened catches up with him. 

Two seconds later Erik’s expression morphs into one of worry and he steps closer, hesitantly. “Charles?”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t flinch,” he repeats, feeling his entire body gradually growing warm with joy and melting his stupor. “You were angry, I mean, really angry, and you were going to shout, I could tell, and your hands were moving and I – I didn’t flinch.”

It is Erik’s turn to blink for a second before realization dawns on him, too, curling his lips upwards and making his eyes sparkle. They stare at each other, basking in the moment. 

Charles has been flinching, albeit less and less as the months wore on, prompted by sudden movements or unexpectantly raised voices. Erik had been walking on eggshells for weeks on end, until one day Charles had shouted at him to stop treating him like a scared dog. So Erik forced himself to spend less energy on trying to figure out if something he said or the way he said it might set Charles off, like that one time in August when he practically shouted at a passer-by and Charles disassociated because Nate had once used similar wording. 

Nevertheless, Erik has never managed to completely forget himself, to raise his voice without worry, just as Charles has never been absolutely calm during one such incident. 

They have come a long way. He has come a long way, Charles realizes. 

Spurred by the happiness radiating from both Erik and him, Charles steps forward until he is almost into Erik’s space, without ever breaking eye contact. 

Erik is smiling broadly enough that it shows his teeth and Charles feels his attention drawn towards his mouth. Erik notices and the mood changes suddenly, from cheerful to something else entirely. Erik’s smile recedes and when Charles swallows thickly and glances up, Erik’s eyes have darkened.

Nothing in the world has ever been less obvious than pushing himself up on his toes to press his lips against Erik’s. 

Charles’ heart literally skips a beat as the touch floods him with the entirety of Erik’s mind and he gasps, parting his lips enough for Erik to swipe his tongue across the lower one. 

Just like that, Charles is addicted. 

He presses closer, winding his hands around Erik’s neck for balance while covering Erik’s mouth with his own again, deepening the kiss. 

They are both panting when Charles eventually pulls back, meeting Erik’s gaze. 

“Are you sure?” Erik asks. 

It thrills Charles to hear how hoarse his voice is, how hopeful his mind, how every synapse of his brain is on fire and how the sensation is mirrored in Charles’ own. 

“Yes,” is all there is left to say. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it, dear readers, it’s done! This was always the plan, fyi, so I hope I didn’t disappoint anyone who was hoping for the rating to climb to explicit. 
> 
> I might be tempted into a sequel! But right now my Muse has no clear idea of how to continue, since in my mind Erik and Charles are now living happily ever after. Maybe something will come to me, though, maybe featuring more Tony and Shaw :)
> 
> Last but not least, a big **THANK YOU** to everyone who has commented and left kudos throughout the WIP phase of this fic. It meant a lot to me!  
>  Doesn't mean that I wouldn't love to hear your thoughts whenever you stumble upon this fic :) Feedback gives us authors life! 
> 
> PS (aka blatant self-advertising): In case you liked my style and might be interested in more, I have several Sherlock fics of varying length to offer, as well as one extensive Supernatural season 10 AU and two larger Harry Potter fics. Also, a post-AoU Steve/Tony fic with a sequel I'm currently posting. Just saying!  
> ([and my tumblr](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/))
> 
>    
> Translations:  
> verdammt nochmal = damn it  
> Beruhige dich = calm down  
> Dummkopf = fool, oaf, imbecile  
> Ja klar, das sagt er jetzt = Sure, he’s saying that now  
> klar? = alright?


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